Mme Catherine Astolfo’s new book, Auntie Beers, published by Carrick Publishing, is now available on Amazon! Auntie Beers is series of interconnected tales told to the author by her mother, as well as a mystery that she couldn’t resist sharing.

Witty, raw and often poignant and crafted by an award-winning crime writer, one of Canada’s leading story-tellers.

To get your copy, here’s the link.

Cat Mills is an award-winning documentarian whose work has been screened at leading film festivals throughout the world. The Mesdames were honored to be the subject of her film, The Mesdames of Mayhem, which readers may view on CBC GEM and YouTube. Her latest film is Do You Hear What I Hear? about noise pollution and its impact on city life.

It was not long before the Mesdames drew Cat into their world of crime…writing. She made this terrific debut with her supernatural mystery, The Dollhouse.

THE DOLLHOUSE

by

CAT MILLS

Charlotte opened the back door of the Jeep. Her dog, Artie, bounded out and immediately ran around to the side of the house, sniffing every tree and bush.

She warmed her hands deep in her pockets and surveyed her property. When she’d viewed the house three months ago, it was in the midst of summer, and the land was warm and cheery. The house looked different now—somewhat shabby, the lawn a little overgrown. Was it quaint, or eerie?

When she’d first seen it, the house looked big and magical, though beat-up. Tiny trees were sprouting in the eavestroughs. Green flecks of paint decorated the lawn. Her real estate agent had warned her about the sea air and what it could do to an old house.

Now she didn’t know how to feel. A weird energy coursed through her body. Half of her wanted to explore her new home, her fresh start; the other half wanted to crawl into a hole filled with blankets and die.

A scraping noise pulled her back to reality. She noticed Artie at the back of the yard, digging furiously.

She approached him slowly, growing alarmed.

Old bricks lay in a circle. On top of them lay a round wooden cover, damp and rotting. Artie was clawing his way around the bricks. Her pulse throbbed in her neck.

Her mother’s panic-stricken voice echoed in her mind: Stay away from the well!

She grabbed Artie by the collar and pulled him toward the house. He looked back a few times before giving in and following her to the front yard. She’d fill in that well in the spring. Wells were dangerous, vile things. She didn’t want one anywhere near the house.

She took out her rabbit’s-foot keychain, slid the house key into the lock, and walked into her new life.

The house was filled with boxes, her handwriting labeling the tops. Her possessions had arrived a few days earlier. Looking at them drained her energy. Perhaps she should have started afresh with brand-new objects, none associated with her past life.

She looked out the bay window at the deep blue sea. There were a few wisps of cloud over the water; a fogbank was growing on the horizon. The setting sun had lit everything pink. The leaves on the surrounding trees were dazzling orange, red. and yellow. Everything looked warm, despite the chilly October air. This peaceful space was all hers.

She unearthed the glasses, and opened the champagne left by her real estate agent. As she drank, her shoulders fell, her body relaxed.

She crouched down on the floor and pulled a large box toward her. Slicing through the packing tape, she opened the flaps and peered in at a childhood relic—her dollhouse.

Her ex-husband had always hated it. He claimed he found it creepy. Despite her pleas, he insisted it stay boxed up in the garage, saying they didn’t have space in their home for “that monstrosity”. But Philip was gone; he’d walked out on her in a way she had grown to expect from men. He no longer mattered. This was her house. She would decide what stayed and what went where.

Her beloved dollhouse was a gift from her father. He’d painstakingly taken each measurement and chiseled every detail to create a perfect replica of her childhood home. Its furniture was a near match for the real thing. When she gazed into it, she was transported back to the 1960s by the shag carpet, record player, and avocado-colored bathtub.

In the living room, she found three bubble-wrapped dolls: her mother, her father and herself. As a child, she’d marveled at the mini-people. Now, seeing them as an adult, they looked generic and vague. The only thing that identified them were the small wigs glued to their wooden heads.

Lovingly, she placed her father in the basement workshop next to the wooden worktable. Beside him, on a stool, she placed herself. It was a special treat to watch him work, because he was always busy and rarely at home.

Sometimes when he worked on the dollhouse, he would tell her about the war. Though he never took his eyes off what he was doing, she could sense him drift back to France. Often, he would go quiet. She’d felt embarrassed by his silence, and would look away from his face, focusing instead on his gold watch. She could still hear it: tick, tick, tick. She struggled to recall the sound of her father’s voice, but she never forgot the sound of the watch.

To this day, she refused to wear a watch or keep a clock in the house.

She unwrapped the doll of her mother, letting her hands glide over the elegant green dress and her mother’s dark hair. She placed her mother in the master bedroom, the one room in the dollhouse that remained unfinished. In their original home, the master bedroom had a grand four-poster bed, scarlet drapes, and antique furniture. The room in the dollhouse was white. Bare. Ugly.

Looking back, she thought she’d been a disappointment to her mother. She had been a tomboy, and her mother a lady. The only thing her mother talked to her about was her father: his philandering ways, how badly he treated them both, and how he had a family elsewhere. Charlotte had never known whether this information was true, or what she was supposed to do with it.

She gently swung the front of the dollhouse closed and placed the hook on its latch. She ran her fingers down the length of the cord at the back, plugged it into the wall, and flicked the switch. Every room lit up magically, except the master bedroom light. The bulb there had a slight flicker; she would have to replace it.

She walked over to the couch and slumped down on it. She took a sip of champagne, and admired the dollhouse: its frosted glass windows, red front door, and carefully crafted flower bed edging the front path. Had her parents ever been happy? Was that the reason her own marriage had been so unbearable?

She placed her wine glass on the coffee table and put her head down on the armrest. Artie curled up on the small rug by her feet. She felt her heavy eyelids close—just before a shadow moved inside the dollhouse, and a tiny door closed.

#

Ambrose was a beautiful town, if you could call it a town. It was more like a foggy shoreline, with the occasional cluster of houses, and ports used by fishermen for two centuries.

Weeks passed, and Charlotte slowly filled her large, empty home with woolly blankets, candle holders, and colorful vases—even a piece of local art showing the foggy harbor. She met a few neighbors, friendly busybodies who were curious about the single woman From Away who lived in the big house.

Her job interviews had gone well. The region was in desperate need of medical professionals, even assistants like herself. She needed to be busy, so her mind would not drift to other, unwanted places.

One afternoon, she treated herself to a bouquet of flowers. She’d filled a vase with water when her eyes glanced over to the dollhouse. How quiet it had gotten outside; the normal cacophony of seagulls and distant traffic was gone.

She put down the vase and opened the dollhouse . Her eyes fell on her mother’s doll, standing in the master bedroom. Her glance drifted down to the garage, where her own doll sat alone on the stool.

Father was missing. Her blood went cold.

She looked in every room and couldn’t find him. She opened armoires and moved beds, but he was gone.

She stared down at the dollhouse, her arms limp at her sides. Where could he be? She walked to the bay window and looked out into her backyard. The brick well lay hidden by the tall grass. Its rotten wooden cover glistened with damp. Everything looked bleak. Foggy. Dull.

She looked back at the dollhouse. Her father had carved a plank and painted it green before he’d attached it to the back of the house. It was their backyard.

Her father’s doll was standing in the middle of the yard.

Charlotte picked up the doll and threw it into the dollhouse. Her hands trembled uncontrollably; her head pounded. She needed to get away.

Artie leaped up from the couch, and started jumping and whining. She grabbed his leash, opened the front door, and he bounded out.

#

She was 12 years old. It had been a hot, humid summer—the kind that leaves a sticky layer of sweat and dust all over one’s body. She’d been away at camp in the Laurentians, swimming in the cool lake waters and fostering a crush on the cute boy in the cabin next to hers.

She’d planned on taking the bus home. Her parents never picked her up from camp; they were always too busy with work or social gatherings. So, when she approached the bus with her duffle bag over her shoulder, she was shocked to find her mother waiting in their old, mint-green Cadillac.

Her skin prickled; something was very wrong.

As they drove over the bumpy dirt roads, her mother was quiet. Charlotte looked out the window, and waited for her to speak. Eventually, she did.

Her father was gone; he’d left in the middle of the night with his suitcase. He had finally abandoned them, her mother coolly explained as she changed lanes.

Charlotte remembered feeling empty. It wasn’t just the abandonment that chilled her; it was her mother’s indifference.

It was the longest day of her life.

She sat with Artie on the edge of the pier, looking out over the stormy waters. The whitecaps were growing. The wind was picking up, but she didn’t notice. She was looking into the past, and all she saw were the trees passing by the Cadillac’s window as her mother gave her the news that shut part of her heart away forever.

After her father left, Charlotte’s mother took on a new life. She laughed more and was nicer to Charlotte. They started going to galleries and bonded over art. She’d lost her father, but finally had a mother—a mother who became fiercely protective of her, who gave her an early curfew so she wouldn’t get into trouble.

That’s when her mother became terrified of wells. She told Charlotte stories about children falling into them and being trapped forever. Charlotte started having nightmares about being at the bottom of the well, the only sound a clock slowly ticking.

Rain started to pelt down. Artie whined, shaking Charlotte from her memories. She looked up and noticed a black storm cloud overheard. The rain was rapidly picking up, the wind blew a spray of sea mist into her face. She grabbed Artie’s leash, and together they raced home, her clothes growing wet and heavier by the second.

The power was out when they got back inside. Charlotte flicked the switches in vain. A crack of lightning lit up the windows. She darted around the house, opening the windows to close the outside shutters.

Boom! Crack! The storm was directly overhead. Artie whimpered. Charlotte grabbed him and climbed onto the couch, pulling the blankets around them both.  Her eyes locked on the flashes of white light outside.

She fell into a dark, confined place. Her whole body ached. She was wet, up to her shoulders in cold, muddy water. She couldn’t feel her legs. Was she floating or touching the ground? Darkness enveloped her. Every sound was muffled, everything except the ticking of a clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She bolted upright, clutching her throat, shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

The storm was still raging, but the thunder was gone. Her eyes fell on the dollhouse. The lights were on. The front of the house was open. Her father’s doll was gone.

She couldn’t see him, but she knew where she’d find him.

She ran outside, barefoot. Her feet squished in the waterlogged soil; cold mud squeezed up between her toes. Her cardigan stuck to her arms.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky as she trudged forward.

Stay away from the well!

She grabbed its rotten wooden lid. It felt like a thick sponge and splintered in her hand. She heaved it aside and stared down into the darkness.

The storm silenced. The world disappeared as she stared down into the well. Then she heard it.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Muddy water soaked into her jeans. Her fingers sunk into the soil, water bubbling around. She knew why her mother had kept her away from their well.

Finally, she cried.

#

Next morning, the sun was bright, the brightest Charlotte had ever seen. It pierced through the few remaining leaves on the trees, making them look like fire.

Charlotte crouched over the dollhouse. Carefully, she spread white mortar on a tiny clay block. With the precision of a surgeon, she placed the final brick in place. A small circle of red bricks stood out against the painted green grass.

She left her mother’s doll in the bedroom, where it was sterile and cold. That is where she would stay. Alone.

Lovingly, she picked up her father and smoothed out his shirt. She gazed at his tiny wooden face and blond wig. There were no words to say; nothing left to feel. She put her father’s doll into the well. Slowly, she placed the lid on top.

She took her own doll out of the workshop and slipped it into her pocket.

The storm was gone; the sunlight had chased away the darkness.

She led Artie across the dirt road. Together, they walked past the brambles to the shoreline. There, she climbed on top of a large boulder. Artie followed her, his claws scraping the rock. He sat down beside her.

Together, they watched the glass-like water and a lonely blue heron fly by.

It was time to put the dollhouse back in the box.

THE END

Rosemary had a long career as a journalist before she turned to crime…writing. She specialized in finance reporting and this led to her popular amateur sleuth series, featuring Pat Tierney, an ethical financial advisor battling many frauds and scams.

Rosemary’s work has been nominated for several leading awards, including the CWC Award for Excellence. She often draws on her intriguing experiences as a reporter when crafting her mystery short stories. In “Farewell to the King” she uses her visit to Graceland to attend Elvis Presley’s funeral.

FAREWELL TO THE KING

by

ROSEMARY MCCRACKEN

When the news broke that the King of Rock ’n’ Roll had died, Les Moms were beyond consolation. We knew the words to every song the King had recorded. We’d lost our dearest friend.

The four of us gathered at Toni’s apartment that morning. Elvis was singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on the record player when I arrived.

“There’ll never be another like him,” Mai-Lei wailed. “Elvis was the King. He was ours!” Her pretty face was wet with tears.

“We should hold a wake,” Cécile said. “Stay up all night to show how much we miss him.”

I lowered myself onto the sofa with Robbie strapped to my chest in his Snugli. “Sleep tonight, my friends,” I told them. “Tomorrow, we go to the King’s funeral.”

They stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

Toni, jiggling little Gabriella on her hip, was the first to speak. “The funeral is in Memphis, Paula. And in case you don’t know, Memphis is south of the border in the U.S. of A.”

“Toni’s right,” Mai-Lei said. “There’s no way we can get from Montreal to Memphis for the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

I waved off their protests. “Bon Voyage Travel is offering a charter flight to Elvis Presley’s funeral. The first 150 people who put their money down will leave Dorval Airport at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

They stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths.

“A bus will take us to the Elvis sites in Memphis,” I told them. “And we’ll be back in Montreal tomorrow night. What do you say?”

“What would that cost us?” Mai-Lei asked.

“One hundred and sixty-five dollars each.”

“Mon dieu!” Cécile cried.

“And a babysitter on top of that?” Mai-Lei said. “Dream on.”

“It’s not impossible,” I told them. “One hundred and sixty-five dollars is five dollars a week for the next 33 weeks. We’ll give up smoking for Elvis. And we all know someone we can leave our kids with for a day.”

“Might work for the three of you,” Toni said. “You’re not breastfeeding.” She looked down at Gabriella.

“Pierre would let you go to Memphis?” Cécile asked me.

“Pierre can’t stop me,” I said. “The cops nailed him in a raid last week. He’s doin’ the Jailhouse Rock.”

The girls giggled uneasily.

“We have to do this,” I told them. “For us. We can tell our kids we were at Elvis Presley’s funeral in 1977.”

“We’d need the money today,” Mai-Lei said. “That won’t be easy.”

But we managed to get it. Toni raided the joint bank account she had with Rocco, her husband. Cécile wheedled it out of her horny father-in-law. Mai-Lei dipped into the till at her brother’s restaurant. And I cleaned out the emergency fund I’d created by squirreling away money from Pierre’s grocery allowance.

That afternoon, we took the Métro to Bon Voyage Travel and bought our tickets.

As soon as I got home, I made the call. “Change of plans,” I said. “Gonna say farewell to the King in Memphis. I’ll be behind the buses outside Forest Hill Cemetery.”

“Suspicious Minds” was on the radio when I hung up. Elvis was singing about being caught in a trap. I was determined to get out of mine.

#

Toni arrived at the airport with Gabriella the next morning.

“You gotta be kidding, Antonia,” Cécile said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m breastfeeding and Gaby won’t take a bottle. I can’t go without her,” Toni said. “But she’ll be no trouble. All she does is sleep and feed and poop.”

“You’d better be right,” Mai-Lei grumbled.

Toni looked down at my feet. “Blue suede shoes, Paula?”

I shrugged. “They were good enough for Elvis.”

Mei-Lei pulled a camera out of her backpack. “We gotta have a group shot with Paula’s blue suede shoes in the middle.”

“Monsieur,” I called out to a man in a business suit, “would you take our photo?”

We posed for several shots. Then we remembered why we were at the airport and scrambled to make our flight. We found ourselves breathless in the departure lounge with dozens of other women. Many were in their twenties like us, but there were several teenagers, and a good number of older women. They wore Elvis T-shirts and Elvis ball caps and Elvis badges. Many of them were in tears.

The King was crooning “It’s Now or Never” over the sound system as we filed into the airplane.

I sank into my window seat and tried to relax.

“If I died today, my life would be complete,” Cécile moaned when she sat down beside me. “I’ll be with him this afternoon in Memphis.”

“I’ve never felt so close to him,” I heard Mai-Lei tell Toni in front of us.

Gaby, we soon learned, did more than sleep and feed and poop. She screamed at the top of her lungs. As the plane climbed into the sky, she started to howl and she didn’t let up.

“Shut that damn kid up!” a woman shouted across the aisle.

“Yeah, shut her up,” Cécile muttered beside me.

“Air pressure in her ears,” I called out to Toni. “Nurse her to make her swallow.”

Was I ever glad I’d left Robbie with my landlady.

The airline provided coffee and pop, and we’d brought peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, Elvis’s favorite. “Hey, it’s not fancy,” Cécile said when we’d shared our cookies and Rice Krispy squares, “but I’d rather be eating lunch here with Elvis than in the fanciest restaurant in the world.”

Mai-Lei heaved a sigh. “I can’t believe he’ll never release another record.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Toni said with a groan, and moved Gaby to her other boob.

Cécile stopped munching her sandwich. “It’s over. The King is gone.” 

#

After four-and-a-half hours in the air, we landed at Memphis International. The airport was a circus, packed with fans carrying Elvis posters, waving Elvis banners, wearing Elvis caps and T-shirts and rhinestone jumpsuits.

But going through customs was a breeze. “How long will you be in the United States?” the frazzled agent asked me.

“Just a few hours,” I said, my heart hammering in my ears. “We’re going to Elvis Presley’s funeral, then flying home.”

“Tell me something new,” he muttered and waved me through.

No one asked to look in my handbag.

Outside the terminal building, the heat and humidity nearly bowled us over. Mai-Lei snapped photos of us hamming it up with the Elvis Forever sign I’d made. I took the camera and got a few shots of her.

Then we boarded our air-conditioned bus. “Cool in here and there’s a toilet at the back,” Cécile said, nabbing a window seat behind Toni and Mai-Lei. “We could stay on this bus until it’s time to fly home.”

I took the aisle seat beside her.

“Why didn’t we ever see Elvis in concert?” she asked, her brown eyes filled with tears.

“Because he only came to Canada once. Back in 1957, and we were in in kindergarten then.”

“We should have gone to see him in the States. The one trip we ever took for him was to his funeral.”

I reached over and patted her hand.

“I’m Virgil, your driver this afternoon,” the bus driver announced. “Welcome to Memphis, the city that gave the world the Holiday Inns. And Elvis Aaron Presley, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.”

Elvis’s name was greeted by whoops and cheers and clapping. Mai-Lei turned in the seat in front of us and gave Cécile and me a thumbs-up.

“All flags in Memphis are at half-mast,” Virgil continued as he maneuvered the bus through the airport parking lot. “And traffic’s the worst I ever seen. Thousands of people from all over the world are here to say goodbye to the King, same as you. On top of that, 16,000 Shriners are in town for their convention. Good thing you folks fly out tonight. There’s not a hotel room to be had in all of Memphis.”

We merged into the city traffic. “We’ll be spending the afternoon in the suburb of Whitehaven,” Virgil said. “Whitehaven is 12 miles south of downtown Memphis, and its best-known landmark is Graceland, the King’s home.”

The passengers responded with more whoops and cheers. Gaby let out a wail, and Toni did her best to pacify her.

We crawled through the streets. About 20 minutes later, we managed to merge onto a major thoroughfare where traffic was almost at a standstill. “Elvis Presley Boulevard,” Virgil said. “In 1971, the City of Memphis changed the name of this stretch of Highway 51 in honor of the King.”

Creeping north on Elvis Presley Boulevard, we passed a Denny’s Restaurant with a gigantic flower arrangement in the shape of a guitar, a muffler shop with a hound-dog floral display, and a car dealership with Rest in Peace Elvis on its neon billboard. At a light, a uniformed police officer crossed the boulevard in front of our bus holding a young woman in his arms. She must have passed out from the heat, or maybe from the excitement.

Then we were in front of Graceland’s famous metal gates with their musical notes. Police officers were holding fans back. Down the drive, I glimpsed the white mansion fronted by four pillars and two stone lions.

“Graceland, the King’s home,” Virgil said.

“C’est extraordinaire!” Cécile’s voice was filled with reverence.

The bus went completely silent for several moments. Until Gaby started to scream.

“Damn kid!” someone shouted.

Elvis’s “Love Me Tender” wafted over the sound system, and Gaby quieted right down.

“When the King bought Graceland back in 1957,” Virgil said when the song was over. “this was way out in the country. But this area’s grown up in the past 20 years.”

“Can we get off and take photos at the gates?” Mai-Lei called out.

“No, ma’am,” Virgil said. “Private funeral service starts in there in 10 minutes. You shoulda been here yesterday. Thousands went in to pay their respects. They were lined up for blocks down the street.”

“I don’t care,” Toni shouted back to us. “I’m livin’ my dream just seeing Graceland.”

“I can feel Elvis all around me,” Mai-Lei yelled over her. “He lived and died in there.”

Beside me, a sobbing Cécile leaned back in her seat, clutching her heart. In front of her, Mai-Lei snapped photos through the window.

People were standing and sitting on the branches of the trees beside Graceland Christian Church, Elvis’s neighbor to the north, trying to see beyond the rock wall. The church grounds were littered with pop cans and fast-food wrappers.

We crawled north on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Crowds thronged the sides of the street, wooden barricades holding them back from the traffic. At Forest Hill Cemetery’s main gates, we pulled into a parking lot filled with rows of buses.

“We can watch the funeral procession go into the cemetery from here,” Virgil said. “Only invited guests are allowed in there, but you folks can get off the bus and walk around. We’ll wait here until the procession leaves the cemetery.”

We followed him into the heat outside. He joined a group of drivers having a smoke. We stood fanning ourselves in the shade of a tree at the edge of the parking lot.

“Seems this is as good as it gets,” I said to the girls. “It’s a downer that we can’t go into Graceland or the cemetery.”

“That would’ve been out of sight,” Toni said, “but it’s enough for me just to be in Memphis. Elvis knows we’re here for him. And Gaby’s happy here too.” She patted her sleeping infant’s head.

“Careful,” Mai-Lei said. “Don’t wake her up.”

I lit a cigarette, and Toni waved me away. “Don’t smoke near my baby.”

We watched the procession come up the boulevard. It was led by a silver Cadillac, followed by a white Cadillac hearse and 17 white Cadillac limousines. A helicopter hovered overhead. People on the sides of the road reached out their arms as the hearse drove by.

“He’s in there!” Cécile cried as the hearse approached us. She started to run towards it.

Mai-Lei and I held her back, and she collapsed, sobbing, in our arms. But she pulled herself together a few moments later. “Let’s hold hands,” she said, her eyes on the procession.

The four of us gripped one another’s hands as the vehicles turned into Forest Hill Cemetery. Then we hugged and pledged our eternal love for Elvis.

Mai-Lei pulled a portable tape recorder from her pack. “I need to hear his voice.”

“We can hold a vigil in the bus while he’s put into the ground,” Toni said.

“Not in the ground, Toni,” Cécile chided. “In the Presley family vault.”

“Let’s do it,” Mai-Lei said, and they turned towards the bus.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” I called after them. “I need another smoke.”

I took a homemade badge out of my handbag proclaiming that Montreal Loves Elvis and pinned it on my blouse. Then I lit a cigarette and headed behind the buses. No one seemed to be following me.

So I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman of about my age with a mane of teased black hair stood behind me. She looked like a tough, street-smart version of Priscilla Presley.

She glanced down at my badge, then scrutinized my face. “Montreal blonde who loves Elvis. You must be Paula.”

I nodded, and she pointed to the badge she was wearing: Knoxville Loves Elvis. “I’m Larissa. Come with me.”

I looked around nervously. Other than the two of us, there was no one behind the buses. I followed her.

She pulled up in front of the wire fence. I looked around again. We were completely alone. I reached into my handbag and removed a packet from the false bottom. Larissa quickly slid it into her shoulder bag, and pulled out a small, fat envelope. She showed me that it was filled with large American bills. I slipped it into my handbag, and she sauntered off, disappearing between two buses.

By this time, hundreds, maybe thousands of people had congregated outside the cemetery gates. I crossed the road, and glimpsed a sea of flowers beyond the gates. I chatted with a police officer who was doing crowd control. He’d been a year behind Elvis at Humes High School, and had seen the King perform at the annual talent show just months before he graduated in 1953. “He put a foot on a chair, strummed his guitar and sang his heart out. For me, that’s when rock ’n’ roll was born.”

At a sidewalk souvenir stand, I bought four black T-shirts stamped with Elvis’s face and the words Love Me Tender, four Elvis coffee mugs and four Elvis baby bibs. I put my Montreal Loves Elvis badge back in my handbag and ran for the bus. My blouse was drenched with sweat and sticking to my skin.

“We been waitin’ for you,” Virgil said as I climbed aboard. “Funeral procession left five minutes ago.”

I smiled and thanked him. Back in my seat, I handed out my Elvis gifts to my friends. “Let’s wear our Elvis shirts back to Canada,” I said. I needed to change out of my sweaty blouse.

We took turns in the washroom at the back of the bus. “This has been the best day in my entire life,” Mai-Lei said when she returned to her seat.

Outside the airport, Mai-Lei took a photo of Virgil in his driver’s seat. Inside the terminal, she snapped photos of us in our new T-shirts.

On the plane, we listened to Elvis and dozed a bit. A few people complained to Toni that Gaby’s disposables were stinking up the washroom. I told her not to pay them any mind.

Cécile placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Merci, Paula,” she said. “I can tell my grandkids I was at Elvis’s funeral.”

She pulled the baby bib from her bag. “And they can wear this!”

#

“They’re searching bags and purses,” Cécile whispered in the lineup for Canadian customs.

My heart slammed into my throat.

“It’s gonna take forever to get through here,” Toni whined, “and Gaby’s diaper needs changing.”

Gaby let out a howl.

“Phew!” Mai-Lei wrinkled her nose. “I can smell it.”

Toni’s eyes flashed daggers at Mai-Lei. “Your kid don’t poop?”

“He poops at home, which is where yours should be, Antonia. We’ve had to put up with Gaby all day.”

Toni moved closer to Mai-Lei, but Cécile edged between them. “Arrêtez, vous deux! Let it go. We’ve had a long day, and we’re all tired and cranky.” She whispered something to Mai-Lei, and steered her ahead of her in line.

“I’ll take the baby for awhile,” I said to Toni. When I had the Snugli strapped in place, I motioned for Toni to walk ahead of me. I slipped the envelope of cash into the Snugli, pushing it down into Gaby’s diaper.

My gut was twisting as we neared the customs counter. “You’d better take Gaby now,” I said to Toni when we were almost at the front of the line.

“Anything to declare?” the Canadian customs officer asked as he searched my handbag. He had a bad case of acne and looked like he was still in high school.

My heart hammered as I held up my Elvis mug. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another officer going through Toni’s diaper bag at the counter beside us. Gaby was screaming in her Snugli. The officer waved Toni on.

“And this T-shirt,” I added, thrusting out my chest for my officer. “I was at Elvis Presley’s funeral.”

“Far out!” he said, ogling my breasts. He didn’t bother looking in the handbag that I held wide open for him.

In the ladies’ room, Toni slipped the Snugli’s straps off her shoulders. “Hold Gaby while I take a leak.” She thrust the baby into my arms and went into a cubicle.

I reached into the Snugli and pulled out the envelope. I wrapped it in a paper towel and stuffed it in my handbag.

“Thanks, Paula,” Toni said, when she took Gaby from me. “What would we do without you?”

#

I hugged my handbag to my chest as we headed into the city on the airport bus. “Thank you, Elvis,” I whispered. “You made it work.”

The money from Pierre’s drug stash would mean a fresh start for me and Robbie, away from Pierre and his fists. I would miss Montreal and Les Moms, but that couldn’t be helped.

And I would always have Memphis.

THE END

Blair has had a varied career, including travel writing until he found his true calling in crime fiction. His story, “A Contrapuntal Duet” won the contest held by the Mesdames of Mayhem for their anthology, In the Key of 13 – and he became a Monsieur!

Blair has since gone on to publish several crime short stories in leading publications such as Shotgun Honey and in several anthologies, including Asinine Assassins and CWC’s 40th Anniversary Anthology, Cold Canadian Crime. He’s now working on a crime novel.

“To Catch a Kumiho” was short-listed for the 2023 CWC Award of Excellence for Best Short Story. This chilling supernatural cross-over tale centers on a Korean demon, the kumiho, a nine-tailed fox monster that can transform into a beautiful woman, so it can eat the heart of its victim.

TO CATCH A KUMIHO

by

BLAIR KEETCH

“Spicy enough for you?”

I regarded Sujin over my dak-galbi—spicy Korean stir-fried chicken. “I like it hot,” I said, ignoring the rivulets of sweat rolling down my forehead.

She smiled at me enigmatically. “That’s what every man says, but few can stand the heat.”

Sujin was dressed in her usual attire, that of a sophisticated grad student—white silk blouse, black skirt, and a Burberry beret. She was likely in her late 30s, but her unlined face and stylish wardrobe made her appear a decade younger. I probably shouldn’t have been flirting with her, but I couldn’t resist her playful double entendres.

We’d met a few years ago, when the law firm where she’d been articling needed an investigator on short notice. I’d been hired, and she had been my liaison, though I had resolved the case within a couple of days.

Afterward, we’d get together for an occasional lunch, even though, by then, she’d abandoned pursuing a career in law. While I liked to think it was because of my rugged good looks, I suspected our rendezvous was driven more out of her need to network.

As if reading my thoughts, she said, “I have to confess, I have ulterior motives for this lunch invitation.” She paused, while I gratefully took a sip of water. “I didn’t ask you here just so I could flirt with you shamelessly.”

“How disappointing.”

“I need your professional talents.” She noted my skepticism. “No, really. I want you to investigate my brother’s girlfriend.”

“Let me think about it,” I said. “Family issues, unfaithful spouses, it’s not really what I do.”

She looked at me with luminous, tear-filled eyes, and my resolve crumbled.

“What are you looking for? A hidden past? Unsavory history?”

She hesitated. “Something like that.”

“You think she’s a gold digger?”

 Sujin’s forehead creased. I realized English was her second language, and some North American idioms were perplexing to her.

“You think she’s seducing him for her own gain?”

“That’s part of it,” she said.

I bit down my exasperation and leaned across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Please be honest with me.”

She took a deep breath. “I think she’s a kumiho .”

I was confused. “A what, exactly?”

Sujin cleared her throat and looked directly into my eyes. “Kumiho,” she explained. “A Korean spirit. I think my brother’s girlfriend is a nine-tailed fox who wants to eat his heart and liver.”

Hard to beat that as a conversation stopper. “How many tails?” I asked eventually.

Sujin brushed aside my inane question. “It’s called a kumiho. Part of Korean mythology that I dismissed as just a fairy tale, but then Jiho met Maja, and there was something I didn’t trust from the moment I laid eyes on her.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Many people don’t like their family’s choice in lovers.”

“This isn’t some tale of twisted psychology,” Sujin interrupted. “Jiho is a handsome man, successful—and I’ve never had a problem with any of his previous girlfriends.”

I pushed away the dessert menu. “If you want to prove that Maja is a fox spirit, or a murderer, I think you need someone else. Maybe a ghost hunter or exorcist.”

Sujin looked back at me with her shining eyes. “I didn’t expect you to believe me, but I thought I could trust you. Everyone else would make fun at me.” Her lower lip trembled, and I conceded defeat.

“Let me poke around a little bit,” I offered.

Her smile was my reward—incandescent, with hints of intimacy. Or so I hoped.

#

Instead of consulting a university professor specializing in Asian folklore, I had a better idea. My first stop was an industrial park on the Toronto outskirts.

Alabaster Costumes was low-key to the point of being invisible. No signage, no exterior graphics—just a discreet brass plaque by the entrance. Apart from a large loading dock at the back, the parking lot had space for barely a dozen cars—testament to the exclusive clientele.

I pushed the lobby entrance button, and a tall blonde dressed in futuristic leather approached. She opened the door reluctantly, as if I were selling vacuums door-to-door.

I took in her eyes, cloaked in smoky mascara, and the leather bodice. “Let me guess. Total Recall.”

She looked at me disparagingly. “Pris,” she said. “Blade Runner.” She tried to close the door, but I quickly said, “Here to see Miss Emily.”

She shook her head. “Not without an appointment.”

“We have a special arrangement—I can show up unannounced.”

She went to close the door, so I stated firmly. “Your choice—go ahead and take the risk.”

She held up a finger, retreated to the lobby desk, and picked up a phone. Seconds later, she silently led me inside.

“Beats Party City,” I said as I followed her through room after room packed with costumes.

Emily sat behind a massive mahogany desk. Her outfit was a malaria-fueled vision of Anne of Green Gables. Her luxurious red hair was tied back in pigtails, but her cleavage-revealing costume would scare off any Japanese tourist.

A soft-looking man with unwieldy glasses and a cheap haircut was stuffing papers into an expandable briefcase.

“Love the accountant costume,” I said.

“That’s because I am an accountant,” he replied gruffly as he left.

“I have an Oscar the Grouch costume,” Emily said. “Probably a perfect fit for you.”

She wasn’t one for lengthy social pleasantries, so I dove right in. “Kumiho costumes. Kumiho, as in a nine-tailed— ”

“Nine-tailed fox,” she interrupted impatiently. “We have seven versions in stock.” She consulted her laptop. “All of them exclusive rentals—meaning very expensive. All made with real fox fur, very ornate.”

“You know about kumihos?” I asked in surprise.

“Kumihos—sometimes known as gumihos. In Japan, referred to as kitsune, though it’s probably derived from the Chinese legend of huli jing.” Her pigtails swung in emphasis. “However, the kumiho differs from its other counterparts. It’s not mischievous; it’s downright evil.”

“It transforms itself into a beautiful girl?” I thought of Maja Rav, whom I had yet to meet, but had been told was strikingly attractive.

“The spirit eventually wants to kill her suitor, and then eat the heart and liver. Often there are warning signs…mysterious deaths of animals—even people—nearby.”

“Not exactly eternal love.”

“Depends,” she replied. “If the kumiho can last 100 days without killing, it can change permanently into a human. But, usually, the desire to kill is overwhelming.”

I shivered.

“Follow me,” she instructed, and strode out the office, the heels of her thigh-high boots clicking on the ceramic tiles. I followed her to a small room stuffed with various anime figures. She rummaged through one of the racks. “See. One of them is rented out. The nicest model. Look away.”

Obediently, I turned around and tried to ignore her reflection in the mirror.

“Turn back,” she instructed.

I gasped. Emily had disappeared. In front of me was a human-like fox, tails resplendent. Its face had a sly grin, and cunning eyes looked back at me. “Of course, for the full effect, you’d need the appropriate makeup. And, of course, the right mindset.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This has been very…illuminating and illustrative.”

She playfully bared her teeth at me. “Anytime.”

“And you don’t know why I’m asking about kumihos?”

“I’m sure I’ll find out later.” Her eyes glittered. “But I suspect that someone fears a kumiho has entered his or her life—or that of a loved one.”

I shrugged.

“Don’t treat this as a joke. That would be a fatal mistake,” she warned. With that, she stepped into a wall of costumes and disappeared.

#

I was barely out of the Alabaster parking lot, blinking at the afternoon sun streaming through my windshield, when Sujin called.

“Jiho can meet you tomorrow. Noon at his office.” She recited an address in the Design District.

“What did you tell him? That I’m curious whether his girlfriend is a murderous fox spirit?”

The line disconnected.

Sujin hadn’t told me much about her brother, apart from his menacing girlfriend. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about his name.

Three blocks later, as I drove through a posh neighborhood, it became clear. A newly built monster house stood on a corner, towering over its diminutive neighbors. In front, a sign proclaimed For Sale—Team Jiho . Not only was her brother successful and handsome, but he was also likely rich.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up in front of my modest bungalow. Only seven miles distant from the monster home, but a world away. I walked up my rickety stairs and stopped. The hairs on my arms stood up in warning.

My eyes searched the porch. My ears strained for any sounds out of the ordinary. Then I sensed it—the smell of blood.

In the shadows, there was something small and white. Moving closer, I saw it—a rabbit, still and lifeless, splashes of red blood around its twisted neck.

I retrieved a shovel and deposited the lifeless rabbit in the trash can. There had been many reports of coyotes invading the city, grabbing cats and small dogs as prey, but this seemed different. Far different.

#

The next morning, fortified by coffee, I spent an hour on my laptop searching in vain for any mention of Maja Rav. It was almost as if she didn’t exist—no mean feat in today’s world of social media footprints.

As noon approached, I headed out, dressed in my Sunday best: dark gray suit and snow-white shirt, but no tie.

The head office for Team Jiho was the exact opposite of Alabaster Costumes. Large digital billboards on the roof corners proclaimed its virtues via an endless loop of videos. The windows were tinted smoky gold, except for a section of clear windows that deliberately framed busy office workers, intended to show their dedication to their clients.

The receptionist greeted me like a long-lost family member as her eyes quickly appraised the cut and quality of my suit. An element of cosplay lingered as she led me through a vast open work area: standalone computer pods were interspersed with beanbag chairs, foosball tables, and what I suspected were sleep pods for taking quick naps. The overall effect was that of being the ideal workspace for Gen Y or Gen Z or whatever they were called now, though I noticed all the furniture was pristine and seemingly untouched. Everyone was earnestly at work, most eating lunch at their workstations. So much for life–work balance.

A tall, lean man with model good looks stood at a computer, staring intently at the screen, until he noticed our presence.

“Mr. Kim,” the receptionist said softly.

He gave her a dismissive wave as he approached me, hand extended. He possessed an air of easy confidence.

“Call me Jiho,” he said warmly. “Thanks for coming here. I’m always interested in what’s going on in my half sister’s life, though she’s rather adept at shutting me out.”

The different birth parents clicked in.

Jiho’s Asian features were only noticeable in his dark hair and eyes. On closer look, he was probably biracial and had inherited the best of both parents.

“I thought we could have a light lunch in our staff cafeteria,” Jiho suggested. He led me down a corridor to a large airy room with several circular tables. Private dining room would be a more fitting description than cafeteria.

“Maya will join us soon, though she’s probably eaten already. I’ve never met anyone who has such an impressive appetite,” he said fondly.

Indeed, there was an aroma in the air evocative of my childhood. I couldn’t quite place it until it struck me—liver and fried onions.

At that moment, Maja entered the room, and we both ceased talking. Maja was not the dark-haired Korean beauty I had expected, but rather a tall, striking blonde—wholesome and beautiful, except for a trickle of bloody juice that escaped from her mouth.

“Maja!” Jiho gently chided.

“Oops,” Maja said. “I cook everything rare.” Her voice possessed a Scandinavian lilt. Indeed, she could have been a poster child for Swedish tourism had it not been for her slightly imperfect features—a rather sharp nose and eyes that were a little too small. She took my hand in a surprisingly muscular grip.

“So, you’re Jiho’s paramour,” I said.

“Not sure if I’d go quite that far. Exaggeration is one of Sujin’s charms,” Maja replied.

“Acceptable in a sister,” Jiho said.

“Half sister,” Maja corrected.

“I take it Team Jiho is not a family business,” I said.

“Sujin believes ambition is not to be admired, though she doesn’t mind reaping its benefits,” Jiho said.

I contemplated what to say next when I heard a low, growling sound. Maja stared out the window, her mouth open slightly and her teeth exposed.

“Maja!” Jiho gently chided her.

She shook her head, as if noticing us for the first time. “Excuse me. I’m famished.”

She strode past me, her gold-flecked eyes meeting mine for a split second. I felt an electric spark, and watched her walk out of the room.

I slowly looked back at Jiho. “How do Maja and Sujin get along?”

Jiho laughed bitterly. “They don’t.” He gestured to an expensive coffee machine that was probably worth more than my car. “Espresso?”

“Latte, if possible.”

Jiho fiddled with the controls. “I’m at a loss as to what to do. Maja does her best, but Sujin continues to give her the cold shoulder.”

I noted his easy use of English idioms. “Were you born in Korea?”

“No, just Sujin. When my parents separated, my father moved first to Vancouver, where he met my mother. Later, they came east to Toronto, where I was born.”

“Sujin came along?” Sujin had never said why or how she had moved to Canada.

“No. Sujin stayed with her mother until she was 16. Then her mother was killed.”

A shadow passed over the outside window. I looked out—a murder of crows had settled on the telephone lines across from the office.

“Terrible accident,” Jiho continued. “Out hiking with her daughter, she was attacked by a bear.”

“In Korea?” I asked dubiously.

“Asiatic Bear.” Jiho shrugged. “Somewhere near the North Korea border, I think. Lots of forests there.”

I felt another electric ripple. Maja had returned with a tray of appetizers. Jiho stared out the window distractedly; Maja gave me a secretive smile that hinted at carnal pleasures.

“Poor little girl. To have her mother devoured like that,” Maja said. She scooped half a dozen shrimp into her open palm and devoured them ravenously.

Suddenly, I wanted the charade to end. “Thanks, but I really must go.”

“Oh, good—more food for me.” Maja smiled wolfishly.

Jiho beckoned toward me. “Let me escort you out.”

“Hope to see you soon,” Maja called out as we left. “Maybe the four of us can get together for dinner.”

I thought Jiho would be horrified, but instead he nodded thoughtfully. “Might be worth exploring. Maybe with you by her side, Sujin will be more open.”

“Perhaps,” I said uncertainly.

We went back past the rows of gleaming workstations and returned to the lobby. Suddenly, Jiho stopped. Behind him, a wall of screens scrolled images of custom-made homes for sale. Occasionally, Jiho’s face filled the screen, his gleaming hair and handsome features dominating the room.

“A pleasure to meet you—and let’s follow up on Maja’s suggestion.” He started to turn away. “You know that Sujin thinks that Maja is trying to kill me.”

I nodded. “She cares about you. She’s being overly protective.”

Jiho looked at me directly. “And I care more about Maja than anyone else in the world.” He gripped my arm. “You know, a few years ago, Sujin was convinced our house was occupied by a gwisin—the Korean word for ghost.”

I did my best to hide my surprise.

“Her mother,” he said. “Sujin didn’t tell you?”

Jiho escorted me to the door, but I smiled and said I’d be fine from there. I had no desire to have him watch me walk to my Toyota when he’d probably be expecting a Lexus.

Partway to my car, I stopped, feeling I was being watched. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of crows had now settled on the hydro line, to the point where it was sagging. I stared up at the army of birds, when suddenly they took to the sky as one.

Their departure seemed out of fear. I instinctively glanced upward. Maja Rav was looking out the window, her mouth open as if in hunger.

#

The next morning, I awoke frustrated and annoyed. This didn’t feel like an investigation, but more like a favor for a friend who might be delusional.

Wanting to accomplish something—no matter how minor—I placed a GPS unit underneath Jiho’s personal Audi. Parked beside it was a white SUV with a Swedish flag decal in the back window. On impulse, I took a spare tracker and quickly affixed it to the SUV’s rear bumper.

It didn’t feel warranted, but at least I was doing something.

While I was deciding how to approach Sujin, she texted me. ‘Let’s do lunch. Patio @ Cluny.’

I bit back my irritation at a number of things—the suspicion I was being played, her arrogant assumption that I’d come running at her beck and call, and the fact I’d likely be picking up the tab.

I growled in frustration in what I realized was an unconscious echoing of Maja.

To keep myself occupied, before my lunch date with Sujin, I decided to look closer at Jiho Lee.

I didn’t have to look far.

I walked down my street, past four houses to the corner, and turned right, arriving at a modest bungalow with a spacious veranda. As I expected, Margie Sergeant sat at a table, flipping through pages of house sale listings. She puffed away at what I assumed was her tenth cigarette of the morning.

Margie was the exact opposite of Jiho. Team Jiho was all about Facebook ads and digital billboards; Margie was the opposite. In certain parts of town, you’d be hard-pressed to miss her ads on every bus-stop bench, her bleary eyes staring back at you. Put the Sarge to Work was her slogan, and that’s exactly what people loved about her.

As I clambered up her front stairs, she put down her coffee cup and exchanged it for a cigarette. “You look like a man with a question.”

I didn’t waste time on greetings—not her style. “Jiho Kim.”

“The Golden Boy of Real Estate.” She gave a phlegmy laugh. “He probably made more money yesterday than I’ll pull in all year.”

I raised an eyebrow. Despite her appearance, Margie sold a lot of houses. “Well, he does have a lot of resources behind him,” I said.

“Not bad, considering he was a pariah five years ago.”

“Pretty strong words.”

“Trust me, I’m being kind.” She looked at the cigarette in her hand, as if surprised to see it there. “Oh, he was a wunderkind back in the day. Loved to party. Put most of the profits up his nose, from what I heard.”

“What happened?”

“A townhouse project fell apart in spectacular fashion. Didn’t do his due diligence—it was on a former industrial site, and the soil turned out to be contaminated.”

“So how did he bounce back?”

“I heard his sister bailed him out.”

No further questions came to mind, and since Margie wasn’t one for small talk, I left her to her fumes and caffeine.

#

Lunch was a change in menu and a subtle change in our relationship.

Instead of looking like a sexy student, today Sujin wore an elegant yet demure business suit and very little makeup. She still looked ageless, but I noticed a faint network of lines around her eyes.

“You’re looking very sophisticated,” I said.

“I feel comfortable being with you.”

“Enough to tell me about the gwisin ?”

She gave a casual shrug. “It was a ghost. My mother’s ghost.”

“I thought your mom lived in Korea all her life.”

“She did, but her ghost followed me here.”

I put down my calamari untouched. “Where exactly?”

“Our house. My brother’s house. He bought a place for us to live together. One of his first investments.” She sighed. “Everything was fine for the first few weeks, until I began to see her. Usually late at night. I’d wake up and find her staring at me from the foot of the bed. Pale and translucent, but it was her. She stared at me with great sadness.”

Despite the warm summer afternoon, I felt a chill. “And you’re sure this gwisin was your mother?”

“Absolutely.” She took a gulp of wine. “She was wearing the same clothes I remembered from my childhood.”

“Why do you think she looked sad?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the way my life turned out.” Her eyes welled up. “No husband. No children. I never found someone to love me.” She looked at me expectantly.

I avoided the hoped-for response—that it wasn’t too late, that she still possessed beauty and was worthy of love. Instead, I asked, “What did your brother think?”

“What he always thinks. It was all in my mind, and I should seek professional help.”

“Did you?”

She looked at me coldly. “I got help. A spiritual adviser. She did a cleansing ceremony, and my mother’s gwisin was never seen again.” She frowned. “I don’t think this is working out.”

“My search for the kumiho?”

“No, I mean us.” She stood up abruptly, knocking over her glass of wine.

I watched silently as the blood-red stain traveled across the white tablecloth, but made no move to clean it up.

She stormed out the patio, leaving a crowd of amused diners in her wake.

#

The highlight of my day was going to be my lunchtime steak frites, but after Sujin stomped away, my appetite quickly vanished.

I returned home later that afternoon, fatigued and irritable, but determined to salvage my evening.  I’d pulled out my trusty cast-iron frying pan, opened a bottle of wine, and was preparing a steak when the front doorbell rang.

I opened the door, half expecting, half hoping it would be Sujin wanting to apologize. Instead, it was Jiho, looking wild and disheveled.

He pushed past me with no greeting. “Where is she?” He looked around wildly, his shirt damp from the evening rain. His breath had the sweet-sour smell of soju, a Korean brandy.

“Your sister?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

“I mean Maja! Where is she?”

“Not sure, but she’s not here.”

Jiho strode past me into the living room, where my plate sat forlornly alone on the dining table. He noticed the single wineglass and the open bottle of wine nearby.

He stared down the hall where the bedrooms were. “She has strong appetites. I can’t always keep up.” He sniffed the air. “What’s that?”

“I was cooking dinner. Steak for one, if you must know.”

He stood in the middle of the room, panting with exertion. One of the books I’d taken out from the library was on the coffee table, lying half-open at a page with a glossy illustration of a kumiho facing up. He picked it up and flipped through a couple of pages. “You believe her, don’t you? That Maja is a kumiho.”

“It’s what Sujin believes that matters.”

“Maja is very intense. Loving her isn’t easy. At times, it feels like a hallucination.” Jiho looked at me. “Sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

He nodded as if to finally confirm I was alone. Without a word, he opened my front door and rushed out. I listened to his footsteps on the walkway and the sound of his Lexus starting up.

Despite my best intentions, I poured myself another glass of wine. Halfway through, I stopped. Looking into the mirror above my fireplace, I could see Maja’s reflection. She was standing outside my patio door. Her hair was unkempt and feral, wet from the summer shower. Her clothes clung tightly to her body, leaving little to my imagination. She tugged at the patio door with a reckless abandon, but it did not budge.

My hands shook partly from arousal, partly out of fear, as I walked over to the window. I didn’t meet her eyes as I tugged the curtains closed.

The tapping on the glass grew urgent. I lay down on the couch. Eventually, it ceased, and I fell into a dreamless, fitful sleep.

#

I awoke the next morning, my body stiff and my mind foggy. I was no longer sure about what was real and what I’d imagined from the previous night.

The doorbell sounded like a steamship departing port. I staggered groggily to the front door, half expecting to see Jiho back with more wild-eyed accusations.

Instead, it was Sujin, wearing a summer dress and holding a bouquet of daisies. The epitome of innocence.

“I always wondered what you looked like first thing in the morning,” she said.

“Trust me, I’m usually in better shape.” I rubbed my unshaven face. “Plus, I’m not sure if it’s still morning.”

“Nothing coffee won’t cure.” Sujin brandished a take-out cup and a white cardboard box. She strode past me into the house and yanked open the patio curtains. Outside, I saw only the empty tranquility of my back garden. “Designer donuts. A peace offering.”

“For what? I’m the one who was rude.”

“No, you were being honest with me. I appreciate that. Not everyone has the courage.”

“Apology not needed, but accepted.” I froze.  From down the hall came a sweet, melodic woman’s voice, singing in Swedish.

Sujin stared at me, transfixed.

The shower had been turned off. I hadn’t noticed the sound of it earlier, but now the silence was agonizing.

Sujin didn’t say a word, but her smile faded. Her eyes became dark and forbidding. I couldn’t hold her accusing gaze any longer.

Maja brazenly advanced down the hall, completely naked. Her long blond hair was still damp and plastered to her shoulders. Her body was firm and slick; despite my shock, I felt an animalistic pull.

“Good,” Maja said when she spied the box of pastries. “I’m famished. Always am after a good workout.”

Sujin’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Simple. I had to prove to your dear friend that I don’t have nine tails.” She grinned wickedly. “And I didn’t eat his heart, though I did suck his soul out—in a matter of speaking.”

“What about Jiho?”

“He’ll forgive me. He loves me too much,” she said. “Besides he won’t believe you. I’ll just tell him it’s another one of your delusional accusations.”

“Sujin.” I stepped toward her.

She turned to me, trembling with anger. “I had doubts about to you, but I was willing to try. Because above all else, I thought I could trust you.”

With a violent slam of the door, she was gone.

When I turned around, the room was empty. I cautiously went upstairs, but saw no sign of Maja. She had vanished.

#

The following week was a jumble of restless nights and days. I was constantly jumpy, as if shadows had moved just outside my line of sight.

Yet overall, it was a relief to be free of Sujin, Jiho, and the bewitching Maja.

I was sitting on my back patio with a book and a glass of wine on the table beside me. Twilight had fallen. I saw the occasional reflection of animal eyes in the ravine behind my house, but they no longer made me afraid.

When my phone rang, the display showed Unknown Number. I hesitated a moment before answering.

“God help me. She was right. Sujin was right.” The voice was slurred and frantic.

“Jiho?”

“I need your help. It’s Maja. She’s gone berserk. She’s changed.”

“Changed how?”

I could hear glass breaking. A crash—maybe furniture overturned.

“This can’t be real…” The sound of a gunshot. “Stay away from me.”

“Jiho, where are you?” I shouted.

“At home. On Mill Crescent.”

“Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.” I grabbed my car keys. “Lock yourself in another room if you have to.”

There was a bloodcurdling scream and another crash before the line went dead.

I sprinted toward my car. As I raced down the streets, I started to call 911, but thought better of it and dialed another number—that of Geena Gordon, a homicide inspector, someone who viewed me as a nuisance but also as an occasional ally.

“Thanks, but I don’t need a bedtime story tonight,” she said.

I breathlessly explained about Jiho’s call.

“What number on Mill Crescent?”

“Don’t know, but please send someone out there. And tell the officers to be careful—there might be a crazed kumiho.”

“A what?”

“Just do it,” I yelled and disconnected. I drove urgently, not knowing if anyone would be dispatched. I kept calling Sujin’s number, but it just went to voice mail .

Mill Crescent was a cul-de-sac with fewer than 20 houses, but I didn’t have to figure out which house belonged to Jiho. Midway along the road was a stately mansion with a garage for four cars, faux turrets, and a guest lodge on the perimeter.

A fire truck, ambulance and police cars were parked out front, their colored lights spinning in the summer night. Geena had heeded my pleas for help.

A sense of dread wrapped itself around me as I emerged from my car. A cluster of officers stood talking. Their lack of urgency hit home.

A tall, lanky woman spotted me and strode purposefully toward me. “You made good time,” Geena said.

I nodded. “But I’m still too late.”

“Dead,” she agreed. “Fell off the third-story balcony. Under rather suspicious circumstances.”

I thought of Maja, transformed into a nine-tailed fox, advancing toward Jiho, her teeth bared, her eyes locked with his. I laughed bitterly. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“Why did he call you?”

“Don’t know, but he was hysterical and delusional.”

“Nothing official yet, but I think the coroner will likely find coke and alcohol in his bloodstream.”

“Soju.” In response to her questioning look, I added, “A Korean brandy.”

She grunted, filing away this bit of information. “We found a gun, along with three bullet holes in the wall.” She regarded me closely. “Fired just before he fell off the balcony.”

“Pushed or fell?”

“Can’t tell, but no signs of anyone else.”

“No security cameras?”

“Front door only. Nothing on tape.” Geena paused. “So why did Jiho need a private detective?”

“He didn’t.” It was my turn to hesitate. “I’m helping his sister.”

She noted my careful choice of words. “And where is she, exactly?”

“Not sure. I can’t reach her. Or her brother’s girlfriend.”

Then I saw it—a faint light in the guesthouse.

Geena followed my gaze. “Shall we?”

Neither of us spoke on the short walk to the guesthouse.

The door was unlocked. Geena quickly stepped inside. Ignoring her instructions, I slipped in behind her. She shot me an annoyed look, but didn’t say anything.

The interior held a living room with dining table, adjacent kitchen, a fireplace and a large-screen TV. Double doors at the rear were closed.

Geena gestured for me to stay back as she approached the doors. She put her ear to the door and shook her head. Carefully, she turned the handle, pulled it open—and froze.

I joined her and stood paralyzed.

Moonlight streamed through the windows onto a king-size bed revealing Sujin and Maja. Their naked bodies were intertwined, a tangle of jet-black and blond hair.

A low whistling sound from Sujin. Geena stepped forwarded and prodded her with her foot; Sujin murmured, but remained fast asleep.

Geena glanced at the empty bottle of wine on the side table. “Must have been some party.” She looked at me; I must have blushed in embarrassment.

“Better step outside,” she said. “I’ll handle it from here.” She threw me an accusing stare, as if she’d caught a voyeur, but in truth, I was eager to leave.

#

The next month was a fight to return to normalcy. For the first few days, Sujin called me every hour, but I never answered. Eventually, her calls tapered off.

Several weeks later, Geena Gordon dropped by the house, but she didn’t come inside. “Just a courtesy call. Wanted to let you know the case is officially closed—death by misadventure.”

“Everyone has to die of something.” I slowly closed the door.

Later that morning, I remembered my two GPS trackers. I was going to dismiss the loss, but out of curiosity, I logged into my laptop.

Little surprise to see that Jiho’s car had not moved since the night of his death and still sat in the driveway.

I was about to shut down my laptop when I decided to look at Maja’s travels during the past several weeks. Lots of commuting between Team Jiho’s head office and an address I knew to be Sujin’s home. A lengthy stay outside what I was pretty sure was the latest and trendiest steakhouse.

Then a journey to a destination that I recognized. I double-checked to be sure, then dialed a number from memory.

“I gather the kumiho costume has now been returned,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, it has,” Emily purred. “Truly a remarkable costume, incredibly lifelike.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me who rented it?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she replied. “You know, customer confidentiality.”

“And protecting the sisterhood,” I guessed.

“Does it matter? It doesn’t prove anything.”

I was going to protest, but realized she probably was right. I hung up without a word.

#

Past midnight, and still sleep eluded me.

Since Jiho’s death, I’d suffered from insomnia. Each night, while the hot summer breezes blew, I’d drive for hours through town, but always ended up at Sujin’s house, which stood dark and forlorn.

Like a lovesick teenager, I’d sit in the blackness and watch for any signs of life, but the house felt empty and abandoned.

Tonight, something was different. An object on the front lawn. I angled my car up to the curb and flicked my high beams on. A For Sale sign hung from a frame.

Images of Sujin and Maja stared back at me, their smiles bright, their arms intertwined. Maja & Sujin—Get the Foxy Ladies on Your Side.

Had I been played from the start? Had Sujin toyed with me, knowing that I would be an unwitting accomplice? That I’d testify that her brother was unbalanced, but never say anything to betray her? The possibilities were endless, and I would never know the truth.

I laughed quietly to myself and turned my car back toward home. I recalled what Jiho had said to me when we left his office. How he’d stopped suddenly and grabbed me by the elbow. “You realize that you can never truly ever know anyone,” he’d said, staring into my eyes.

Thinking he was talking about Maja, I had pulled away, eager to be on my way home.

Now as I drove along the darkened streets, I realized too late that he had been warning me about Sujin.

THE END

Marilyn published her first two crime stories in 2017 with “That Damn Cat” in the Mesdames’ 13 Claws and “Journey into the Dark” in the Bouchercon anthology, Passport to Murder. She’s gone on to publish several works of short crime fiction.

Marilyn has had a varied career as a medievalist, business journalist, government communications expert and social media coach. A longstanding member of Sisters in Crime, she and Roz Place are the mainstays keeping readers informed about the doings of the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem. She’s currently completing a police procedural inspired by the characters in “That Damn Cat”.

HER PERFUME

by

MARILYN KAY

Despite the bright August sun, a chill wind swept through the ruined castle’s grounds and ruffled Julie’s chestnut hair. Shivering, she hugged her denim jacket close and moved next to the low stone wall rimming the promontory’s brink. There, she drank in the panorama of the silty brown river snaking its way through the Wye Valley. For a moment, Julie let her imagination soar, spinning a scene of the lord of the manor and his lady sipping wine while looking out over the river from their private balcony.

Before long, though, Julie’s thoughts strayed back to Dima. Today was the six-month anniversary of her husband’s death. For a brief year, she, a diplomat’s daughter, and he, a dashing young attaché, had dazzled London’s social scene. Her heart cried out: Oh my love, we had so little time together. They had not even allowed her to mourn at his grave. Instead, they whisked her away from London to this small Welsh town of Chepstow. They said she had to hide farther afield and quickly, especially after what had happened in Salisbury. Wales would be safer. Even with the tourist lure of a Norman castle, no one would think of searching for her here.

The muffled tapping of rubber-soled shoes on the stairs behind her interrupted her grief. Julie lifted her sunglasses and wiped away a wayward tear trailing down her cheek. A tall, wiry blond man in jeans and navy hoodie came to a halt at the far side of the parapet. She watched him contemplate the sky, the river and the surrounding countryside. After a while, he took his iPhone from his hoodie pouch and proceeded to photograph the view from different angles. Once he’d finished, he turned to her and in an American accent said, “Quite a view, wouldn’t you say?”

She bobbed her head. “Yes.”

He plucked a daisy-like pink flower from the ivy on the wall. Raising his shades to reveal a puckish twinkle in his blue eyes, he sniffed the flower and twirled it between thumb and forefinger before presenting it to her with a bow. “My Lady.”

Charmed, she mimed “For me?” and laughed. Accepting the flower, she pretended to lift a voluminous skirt, placed her right foot behind her left and curtsied. “Thank you, Sir Knight.” She sniffed the flower before tucking the stem into a buttonhole in her jacket.

Smiling coyly, she turned on her heel and descended the stairs to admire the vaulted ceiling of the wine cellar. From there, she could hear his trainers pattering up the steps. Then the sound stopped. He must have wandered onto the grass and over to Marten’s Tower. She went back upstairs to loiter in the kitchen and other service rooms within the remnants of the building known as the earl’s Gloriette, and then meandered into the Middle Bailey area to see if their paths might cross again.

He happened on her while she was snapping a photo of the exterior of the Great Tower. Julie perched her sunglasses atop her head and flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Ah, we meet again, Sir Knight.”

He bowed and gestured forward. “Shall we explore the tower together, My Lady?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Gareth. Gareth Evans.” He put his hand on his heart. “I am but a lonely errant knight who has crossed a continent and an ocean on my quest to discover this fair ‘Land of My Fathers’.”

She half smiled at his allusions to knights errant and to the Welsh national anthem “Hen Wlad fy Nhadau.”  He was definitely trying. If she were honest with herself, maybe she was, too.

“How about you? You sound like you’re neither from the mountains of Snowdonia—” Gareth’s voice assumed the sonorous tones of North Wales “—nor—” pitching his voice in an exaggerated singsong “—from the green vallees of the south.”

She skipped a beat before answering him. “I’m Julie. And Monmouthshire is quite…Anglo-Welsh.”

“I see. I…didn’t mean to cause you offense.”

“I’m not offended. Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the Great Tower and the rest of the castle. It’ll give me practice for my class’s history field trip next week. How long have you been in Wales?”

“Going on three weeks. I’m doing the castle circuit, with a bit of hiking and other sightseeing thrown in.” He winked, but made no effort to get closer.

Julie soon found Gareth eagerly immersed in the history and architectural and sculptural details of the castle—almost as much as she was. What’s more, he was a fun companion, with no ring on his left finger and California surfer-guy looks as an added bonus.

***

“I should’ve had you for the whole circuit. I’ve learned more from you than from all the guidebooks and apps I’ve tried at the other castles. Thanks, Julie, for giving me so much of your time.” Gareth checked his phone. “It’s nearly six. They’ll be kicking us out soon. What say I buy you an early dinner to give you a proper thank-you? Or would you rather go home and I pick you up later for dinner? There’s got to be a nice place to eat in town.”

Julie considered his offer. She hadn’t had such a lovely afternoon since Dima’s death. “There’s the Riverside Wine Bar. That’s pretty good. Are you staying in a B and B, or at the Two Rivers?”

“I got a deal with the B and B across from the castle. It’s quaint, but only serves breakfast and Sunday roast. You got your car here?”

“No, I walked. I just live on the hill south of the castle off Welsh Street, the road which borders the Castle Dell.” She still hesitated.

“Look, my car is in the lot. Why don’t I run you up to your place and pick you up at around 7:30? That’ll give us both time to change into something other than jeans and a T-shirt. What do you say?” He flipped through his phone. “I can make a reservation at the Riverside Wine Bar. For one or two people?”

She breathed in, exhaled and nodded. “Two, please.”

***

Julie stepped out of the shower, refreshed and tingling. Other than with a few mates she’d met at her gym classes, she hadn’t gone out on a date for six months. She clicked on Rag‘n’Bone Man’s “Perfume” from her Spotify playlist and proceeded to get ready.

Eschewing her usual light citrusy Jo Malone scent, she spritzed Dima’s favorite, Dior’s sexy Pure Poison, on her collarbone, in the crook of her elbows and behind her knees and ears, letting some of the spray fall on her hair.

Rummaging through her clothes, she grabbed a lacy, black knit bodycon dress, pulled it on and admired her silhouette. Nope. Far too forward and too London.

After trying on several other outfits, she opted for a floral skater, one she’d bought at Ted Baker for a silly flower-themed hen party last year.

As she buckled the dress’s skinny belt around her slim waist, a sharp yearning for friends and her old life engulfed her. Did they miss her as she missed them? Did they ever wonder about her? Or were they too lost in London’s rush to care? She hugged herself, trying to squeeze all the pain into a small ball deep inside her.

***

A frisson of delight rippled down her skin when she opened the door. Gareth appeared decked out in a blue-and-white checked shirt, khaki chinos, navy blazer and chocolate-brown leather loafers. His widened eyes and huge grin told her that she’d made an impression on him.

As they drove through the arch of the crenelated tower of the medieval town gate on High Street, Julie counted her breaths in an effort to calm the quickened pulsing of her heart. Excitement like this wasn’t supposed to happen when you’re still in mourning.

When they swung into Middle Street, Julie sensed a certain nervousness about Gareth, too, and wondered if he was also feeling the buzz? Or maybe he was stressed by the haphazard parking of cars on this narrow single-lane street?

“It’s tricky getting to the restaurant all the way by car,” she said. “We’re better off using the Castle Dell car park. Besides, it’s only a short walk down to the Old Wye Bridge.”

Gareth relaxed. “My car seems to spend more time in that lot than on the road. Good thing parking is free there.”

As they sauntered toward the river, Gareth suddenly grasped Julie’s arm and guided her through a gate leading to another restaurant.

She tried to back away. “No. This is the wrong place!”

His grip on her arm tightened; his voice was low. “Be quiet and keep walking.” He swung open the door and pushed her and himself inside.

“What are you doing?” She shook her arm from his grasp.

He held a finger to his lips. “Wait.”

The heady aroma of Italian herbs and garlic wafted around Julie, whetting her appetite and her fear. She hunched in the corner, her heart pounding while cold perspiration dripped down her neck. A young couple came through the open doorway and walked past them. Gareth peered out the window. “Okay, we can go now.”

“What was that all about?”

“Sorry. Some nasty people I met along the way I’d rather not encounter again.”

Julie rubbed her arm.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? Shit! I did. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll survive.” He had seemed like such a nice guy. Now she wasn’t so sure. “Who were they?”

“Two English guys who tried to run me off the road in Snowdonia. I encountered them in a pub where they were harassing a young lady. I bought her a beer and told them to piss off. I didn’t think I’d ever see them again, but there they were poking around that building yard. Satisfied?” He glanced at his Apple Watch. “Hey! We’ve got a reservation for quarter to eight. You lead the way.”

Julie strode down the street without glancing back. She was already berating herself for crumpling in fear. Where were those lightning reflexes she had cultivated for the past six months at the mixed martial arts gym? Why had she let him take command of her, when she had worked so hard to empower herself?

He let her take off by herself, only walking beside her when they reached the bridge. They stood together, but not touching, to admire the limestone cliffs and the Regency cast-iron bridge.

Across the river perched the Gloucestershire village of Tutshill, where J. K. Rowling had lived from the age of nine to 18. Tutshill was also the location of the school where Julie would begin her teaching career on Monday.

On the Chepstow side, a tree-lined groomed path ran along the river where several boats were moored.

The wine bar’s willow trees shaded a row of picnic tables, each mounted with an umbrella. Set back from the tables was a white stuccoed, two-storey building housing the restaurant.

Inside was an eclectic mix of red and white walls, curtains and floral wallpaper. Dark wood tables and chairs filled the restaurant seating area, while the bar boasted leather settees and barrel chairs.

“It’s kind of warm and homely, wouldn’t you say?”

Gareth turned to Julie and grinned. “Did you say homely or homey?”

Julie was irritated by Gareth’s attempt to correct her English.

“Okay. It seems, uh, funky. Like a place for real fusion cooking.”

“Well, it’s British meets Spanish. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I can already taste the garlic and chorizo. Of course, I’ll like it.”

Julie noticed Gareth’s raised eyebrow to the waiter as they were escorted to a romantic table for two with a view of the river. “Did you especially arrange for this table?”

He winked and began perusing the wine list. “Hmm, only one California wine and it’s sweet. Would you like to choose the wine? I’m having the steak.”

“I want the prawns. How about we get a bottle of Prosecco?”

“Prosecco? There’s champagne on the list. Why don’t we go all out and order a bottle?”

“You sure?”

“Of course. I think I saw a Bollinger on the list.”

As they leisurely sipped and chewed their way through the feast, conviviality replaced the evening’s earlier tension. Gareth gave up trying to tease Julie into talking more about herself and regaled her with tales of his travels. His story about using his iPhone GPS for hiking and nearly getting lost in a bog outside of Tregaron made her clutch the table to keep from laughing hysterically.

“There was no cell coverage. Just me, the rain and the sheep,” he deadpanned. “I was soaked to the bone, squelching in shoes that were getting sucked downward with every step I took. Eventually, I heard a whistle and madly whistled back. Next thing I knew, a black-and-white collie was herding me and the sheep to greener pastures. The farmer took me to his home.”

Gareth locked eyes with Julie before continuing his saga, “Then, over tea and Welsh cakes, I got the third degree about my family origins. Only after he and his wife were satisfied they’d wrung every bit of family history from me and fed me dinner, did he drive me back to my car….I haven’t shared that episode on Facebook yet.”

They both broke out laughing.

“So what do you do when you’re not tilting at white dragons or getting lost in a bog?” Julie asked.

Gareth raised questioning eyebrows before grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I work at Facebook.”

Her voice tart, she said, “At least you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“That was a low blow.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be—”

“Catty?”

Julie’s face grew hot. She sat up straight, arms crossed in front of her chest and glared.

Gareth licked his lower lip and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wide and glistening. “Look, I know Facebook has gotten a bad rap lately. I’m not saying it doesn’t deserve it. But I wasn’t part of the Cambridge Analytica fiasco, fake news or Russian hacking.”

Julie flinched at the word Russian.

“I work in the user experience area. You know—live videos, emoticons, birthdays, fun backgrounds for posts—things like that.”

Gareth searched her eyes. “You’re not on Facebook, are you?”

She shook her head. “No. As a teacher, I…I…don’t want my students stalking me.”

Gareth tucked his chin into his hand and rocked his body slightly. “I figured as much.” He picked up the second bottle of champagne and gestured toward Julie’s glass. “Shall we finish it?”

Julie dropped her arms and dipped her chin to indicate yes.

He apportioned the remains between the two glasses and lifted his up to her. She took a sip, and he did the same. They each took another sip in silence, his eyes penetrating into the depths of her soul. Then he leaned over and reached out his hand to her. She clasped his.

The waiter interrupted their mute colloquy to offer them dessert. Neither was interested. Neither wanted to break the spell.

Once the waiter had left to tally up the bill, Gareth asked, “Care for a stroll by the river?”

“I think I’d better get back home.”

***

At the door to her semi-detached house in The Mount gated community, Julie surprised herself by asking Gareth in for coffee. They never got to the coffee. Gareth’s kisses softened Julie’s stiffened lips, and his caresses were like warm water lapping over and into every crevice of her body. Like everything he’d done that day, he did with care, sensing when to relinquish to her the lead in their lovemaking. They fell asleep locked in each other’s arms.

Sometime after midnight, she shifted onto her other side. But when her arm stretched back to touch him, her hand landed on an empty duvet. Had it all been a dream? She lay there alone, listening for his movements, too afraid to open her eyes to emptiness, too crushed that he hadn’t wanted to stay the night with her. As she began to doze off, Gareth slid back into bed. He buried his head in her hair and nibbled her ear, cooing, “Your perfume is driving me wild.”

The next morning over a breakfast of poached eggs on toast with tomatoes and mushrooms, Julie asked Gareth, “Where were you last night?”

He sucked in his lips and, with narrowed eyes, considered her and his words. Then, tapping the table, he said, “Sorry. I didn’t want to worry you. I heard strange noises around your house and went to investigate. I didn’t find anything, though. I guess those two guys spooked me last night….You want to go to Tintern with me today?”

Julie considered. Today was Wednesday. Her lesson plans were completed; she’d still have plenty of time to prepare her classroom for Monday. Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. “I’ve got a gym class at eleven. Maybe we could go after lunch?”

“There’s that coffee-and-sandwich place, Coffee Something? We could meet there for lunch, say one o’clock?”

***

The sun shone. A few cottony clouds, buoyed by a light breeze, drifted in the azure-blue sky. Julie left her car at the house and walked into town. Her phone pinged as she approached the Town Gate. She stopped to read the text: a message from Sir William Barr, code name B. Dima used to say, “B for bastard.” Dima had warned her never to trust Sir William, who, on more than one occasion, had tried to grope her.

Yet Sir William had just assumed management of her relocation here. Bolo 2 men black ford fiesta hatchback. Be on the lookout for two men. The two men Gareth had seen? Julie glanced around, inhaled and let her breath out slowly, then walked through the arched gate.

Set into the hillside sloping northeast toward the Wye River and the train station, Beaufort Square was the last remnant of the large central town square dating from medieval times. On the higher west side was Bank Street, while the town’s retail High Street ran along its east side. The square featured the Chepstow Cenotaph war memorial, benches and a series of several stone staircases leading down to High Street.

Coffee #1 was situated at the corner of High Street opposite Beaufort Square in an attractive white, two-storey building.

As she waited for the light to turn green, she glimpsed Gareth bounding down the stairs from the square toward her and waved. He arrived at the intersection just as the light turned green for her. Thwarted, he threw up his hands. Julie motioned she would cross over and wait for him at the corner, then blithely stepped into the intersection.

Out of the blue, a black hatchback barreled from the hidden side road at the bottom of the hill and accelerated up Beaufort Square Street. Gareth called out to Julie. Then, darting between moving cars, he sprinted toward her. She was halfway across before she realized the speeding car was aimed straight at her. Gareth leapt and snatched her out of the car’s track, flipping her on top of him onto the asphalt. Meanwhile, the car squealed around the curve and continued away from the square.

“Fuck! What was that?” Gareth extracted himself from under Julie. Still panting from the close call, he hoisted her up.

Several teens sitting at one of the outdoor tables, came over to help. “Are you and the wife okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

With his arm around her waist, Gareth guided Julie to one of the outdoor tables and sat her down. He knelt beside her and hugged her until she stopped trembling. One of the teens went into the shop and came out with two glasses of water.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, mate. We’re off now. You need anything else?”

Julie shook her head and mumbled, “No.”

“I think we’re all right, but thanks again, you guys.” Gareth settled on a chair next to her. “Do you want me to take you inside while I run and get the car? I can take you home.”

“No. I’m fine. How are you?”

He shrugged. “Good.”

“Then let’s go to Tintern. We can eat there.” She paused. “Were those the two from last night trying to run you down?”

Gareth blew out a long breath. “Julie, whoever was in that car was gunning for you.”

“But I don’t understand.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Neither do I, Julie. Neither do I.”

***

Their Tintern Abbey outing proved to be nigh perfect.

Set among the pine-covered hills of the Wye Valley and manicured lawns dotted by yellow daisies, the ruins of Tintern Abbey rose in all their magical mystical majesty.

After enjoying soup and sandwiches at the White Monk, they entered the abbey. They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the remains of the abbey and admiring the full and partial stone walls, monumental pillars, graceful arches and the intricate framework of gothic windows of the abbey church.

Feeling playful, Julie tickled Gareth as he crouched and lay down on the grass, in his attempt to capture every angle in his photos. He countered by insisting she pose against the dramatic backdrops among the ruins. She consented only if he promised not to post any photos of her on Facebook.

Afterward, in spite of her protests, he bought Julie a silk scarf and earrings, and a tapestry and wool blanket for his mother in the abbey gift shop.

When they returned to her place, Julie flung open the door and announced, “We’re having Nigella’s ‘Curry in a Hurry’ and I’m cooking.”

Gareth swept her off her feet and carried her over the threshold, declaring, “I’m crazy about you, Julie.” Her feet grazed an envelope on the entryway stand, knocking it to the floor. Gareth put her down and picked up the letter before she could snatch it away. He read the name on the envelope, “Julie Ball,” then replaced the letter on the stand and shut the door. “Do you want me to chop? Or open a bottle of wine?” He nuzzled her neck and shoulders before heading to the kitchen.

That night in bed, the two sat propped against the pillows. Julie leaned against him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I promised my mother I’d visit Raglan Castle. I was thinking I’d go up there tomorrow morning. That will be my last castle before going home.”

Julie tugged his arm closer around her. “When do you leave?”

“Saturday afternoon from Heathrow. I’d planned to drive to London from Raglan and spend the rest of the time there. I’m thinking I’d like to spend it with you instead. But it means my finding another place to stay in Chepstow.”

“Stay with me, Gareth.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. Yes,” she said in a breathy voice. “I’ll fix up my classroom while you’re at Raglan. Then we can have the rest of the time together.”

“Julie?”

“Yes?”

“Will you be okay while I’m at Raglan? After what happened yesterday afternoon, I’m worried. I mean, what’s going on with you? You’re so secretive. You wouldn’t even tell me your last name.”

“You know it now. And nothing is up with me. I…I know it’ll all be over with us in a few days. That’s all.”

“Then let’s make the most of our time.” He drew her down under the duvet and buried his head in her hair. “What’s that perfume again?”

“Pure Poison.”

He jerked upright. “You’re kidding?”

She began to chuckle and hauled him down beside her. “No, I’ll show you the bottle in the morning.”

***

Gareth had already left by the time Julie had loaded her car with items for her classroom. She had everything but the heavy-duty knife she needed to trim her foam-core posters. She dashed back into the house and popped the knife into her purse.

Her phone pinged. Sir William had sent a series of three question marks. She had not yet answered yesterday’s text about the black car incident. She couldn’t get it out of her mind that there was something fishy about Sir William’s texting her right before the men had driven their car at her. A chill crept down her spine. What if the sounds Gareth had heard the other night were those men?

Gareth arrived soon after she returned from the school. She threw her arms around him and kissed him as soon as he dropped his bags at the entryway.

He cupped her face in his hands and gazed into the wells of her dark brown eyes before kissing her long and deep. “I feel like I’ve come home.”

She clung to him a moment more and murmured, “You have.” Afterward, she let him settle in the spare room upstairs while she made lunch.

While they finished their coffee at the kitchen table, Julie reassured Gareth once again that she’d neither seen nor heard anything untoward when she had gone to work at the school. “But I need to do some grocery shopping. I thought I’d wait to see what you wanted for dinner tonight first.”

“Good idea. Let’s make a list and get some wine, too. There’s a Norman church by that Tesco Superstore I wanted to take a peek at it. I thought I heard the bells ring yesterday morning.”

Julie’s jaw dropped, and her pulse quickened. She stammered, “S-s-saint Mary’s Priory?”

Gareth smacked his forehead, his face full of contrition. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest we go near Beaufort Square again.”

Julie swallowed before saying, “That’s okay. There’s more selection at Tesco anyway.” To make her point, she grabbed a pad and searched for a pen in her purse. Frustrated at not finding one, she disappeared for a few moments and came back with a pen, the one Dima had stored in the desk she had insisted on moving with her from London.

Eyes wide, Gareth stared at it. “Nice pen. May I see it?”

“It was given to me by a…dear friend. I don’t usually use it.”

He didn’t press any further.

With the list completed, Julie dropped the paper in her purse and headed out of the kitchen. A minute later, she stood at the door and called back to Gareth, “Shall we go now? We can use my car if you like?”

“Let’s take my rental.”

Julie clutched the car seat when Gareth turned down Beaufort and concentrated on navigating him into the Tesco car park. The plan was to leave the car there and make a dash over to see the church.

As they walked back to Tesco, Gareth kept his arm around Julie’s shoulder, his eyes constantly scanning the walk and the parking lot. “Let’s do our shopping and get out of here.”

The corner of her right eye began to twitch. Julie surveyed the car park and moved her body closer to Gareth’s, but neither saw anyone suspicious either outside or inside the store.

Gareth flashed his wallet and insisted that Julie stock up with groceries for the rest of the week and the beginning of the school term. “Frankly, I don’t know why you Brits shop every day.”

“It’s called small fridges and freshness.”

Gareth, laden with three heavy bags, halted. Twisting around toward the store, he said in a low tense voice, “Julie, go back into the store. Once they’re gone, I’ll bring the car around to the entrance and pick you and the bags up there.”

The hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. A scruffy, dark-haired, bearded man was getting into a black Ford Fiesta hatchback about 15 feet away from Gareth’s car. She backed away, turned and, with one quick glance back, scrambled on shaky legs to the store entrance.

***

The tension of unspoken words reverberated throughout Julie’s house. After helping her put away the groceries, Gareth retreated into the living room and turned on the television. Julie sat at the kitchen table and fetched her phone from her purse. Sir William had texted her several times that agents had her under surveillance. In the meantime, she was to lie low.

Reality hit. She was putting Gareth’s life in danger. It was time to explain her situation to him. But something else was nagging her. Were the men in the car also tracking him? And why? Was the altercation they’d had in the pub with Gareth a coincidence or part of a larger plot?

Silence. Gareth had switched off the box and loomed in the kitchen doorway. Julie dropped her phone into her purse.

“Okay, Julie Ball, suppose you tell me what’s going on?”

A melancholic sigh slipped from Julie’s mouth, but she remained tongue-tied. Gareth seated himself opposite her. Propping an elbow on the table, he nested his chin in his palm, locked eyes with hers and waited.

“Six months ago, I lost someone very dear to me. I came here to forget.”

Gareth remained silent, willing her to continue with his steady gaze.

Her anger and frustration boiled over. “Why do you care? You’ll be gone soon and we’ll never see each other again.” Julie slapped the table and spluttered, “I feel like I’m stuck in a bloody interrogation room.”

Gareth sucked in his breath and pushed back his chair. “I feel like I’m attached to a walking bomb. You want me to leave?”

Julie reached out. “No! Please stay, Gareth.”

Planting his fingertips on the table, he leaned in to glower at her tear-streaked face. “Just a few seconds ago, you lash out at me. Now you want me to protect you? Surely you have other friends to hold your hand.”

Then his voice softened. “Julie?” He dropped down beside her and sheltered her in his arms. Lifting her up, he carried her up the stairs.

***

Julie woke to the sharp aroma of coffee curling up her nose. She could hear Gareth whistling in the kitchen. By the time she came down the stairs, the smell of fried bacon and eggs mingled with the coffee. He greeted her with a huge grin and a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms. He’d even filled the rack with toast.

After breakfast, Gareth went up to the spare bedroom to make phone calls and pack for tomorrow’s trip. In the meantime, Julie organized an eco-wash cycle for the clothes he’d be wearing home. In a little good-bye ritual of her own, she threw in his underwear and socks. Next, she hugged in succession his jeans, red T-shirt and navy hoodie before placing each into her washer/dryer.

A pall of sadness engulfed Julie and riveted her focus on the sudsy water submerging and agitating away the traces of their time together.

Raised voices outside and the slam of her neighbor’s front door broke the trance. She remembered Gareth had promised to set her phone and computer up on WhatsApp so they could stay in touch, and she needed to make adjustments to next week’s teaching plans. Squaring her shoulders, she headed to her office to boot up her computer.

Somehow her office looked amiss. The top page of the papers she’d neatly stacked on the left side of her computer was out of kilter. She also found the pages were out of order.

Her heart pounding, she punched the combination to unlock the desk drawer where Dima had kept his pen. The contents of the drawer appeared more jumbled than usual. She touched a hidden button and a secret compartment sprang up. The pen was still there. She breathed a sigh of relief and shut the drawer.

Taking big gulps of air and exhaling slowly, she plunked herself down on her desk chair and rotated around to do another scan of the office.

The intercom crackled and a gruff baritone voice with an Estuary English accent announced, “B sent us.” She’d forgotten about Sir William’s agents, and now they were at her door. But how did they get through the gate?

She squinted into the one-way window they had installed in her door. Two dark-haired men, one with a beard, stood there: the men she and Gareth had eluded at the Tesco car park. She gasped, then remembered her mixed martial arts training: stay calm and move fast. She called out, “I’ll be there in a minute,” grabbed her purse and went back into the office.

Retrieving her pen, she dropped it into a pocket in her bag. When she looked up, Gareth, in jeans and a gray hoodie, was standing in the doorway. “What’s up?”

She seized his hand and dragged him toward the kitchen. “We’re going out the back door. I’ll tell you later.” She pointed to the band of hedges and trees surrounding the communal garden. “Are you game to tackle those boxwoods?”

Gareth shrugged. “For you, anything.”

Julie had already started to race toward the hedges. The two clambered over them, and she pointed toward the road. “Let’s head to town.”

At Welsh Street, Julie took the crosswalk over to the Dell Primary School. “They may have parked here.” She scanned the car park and spotted a black Ford Fiesta hatchback. “Gareth, is that the car?”

He compared the license plate to the one he had on his iPhone. “Yes.”

Julie fished the knife she’d tucked away earlier out of her purse and slashed the car’s tires, while Gareth gawked in disbelief. She retracted the blade and returned it to her bag. “That should do it. Shall we cut through the Dell?”

“Anything you say.”

As they strode down the trail to the castle, Julie’s words poured out in a fast staccato. “I should have told you sooner. My husband was an attaché to the Ukrainian ambassador in London, where we met. My father was counsellor for political affairs there before he retired. He and my mother returned home to Kiev. I fell in love and stayed. I don’t know all the details, but the UK secret service believed Dima was murdered and moved me here.”

She paused to collect her thoughts. “This morning, I discovered that my office had been rifled. Then those two guys showed up at my front door.” She halted and fixed Gareth with dark piercing eyes. “What do you know about these men? You said you met them in Harlech?”

He dropped his head, avoiding her gaze, and scuffed his right trainer on the beaten dirt path. A group of noisy kids crowded by on their way to the Dell playground. “Yuliya Baiul, let’s tour the castle for old times’ sake.” He beckoned to her with his outstretched hand.

At the sound of her name, she stopped cold.

“Come on. Your disappearance was public knowledge. Why are you surprised I know your name?”

“I…just hadn’t heard it said for a long time.” Julie placed her hand in his.

Once they were out of earshot, Gareth resumed his narrative. “MI6 was right to be concerned. The GRU thought Dmitry—your Dima— might be a useful idiot; instead he turned mole for MI6.” He squeezed Julie’s hand. “Of course, GRU has its own mole in MI6.”

Julie croaked, “Sir William?”

Ignoring her, Gareth continued, “A mole whose name is all over the last packet of information Dmitry received, and not just about operations in Crimea and Ukraine. There’s money laundering that not only implicates Mr. B, but also several UK financiers and high-ranking government officials. That’s why Mr. B got involved.” He swung around to face her and clasped both her hands. “I’m so sorry, Julie. They botched the job with Dmitry.”

She covered her face. “Those men?”

“Likely the ones who killed your Dima.”

Once inside the Gloriette, Gareth said, “Let’s go to that balcony where we first met. The tide’s in, so we’ll have the vista minus the mudflats. It’ll also be quiet there.”

Gareth’s suggestion spawned a sensation of spiders crawling over Julie’s back, yet she let him lead her up the stairs to the promontory.

Julie stood farther from the balcony’s low semicircular enclosure wall, but each stood in positions similar to those they were in when they had first met and admired the view. But when she turned her head to Gareth, his twinkly blue eyes had morphed into a steely glint. He carefully withdrew a clear plastic zip bag holding a bottle of Pure Poison perfume from his hoodie pouch. “In Raglan, I was given this, courtesy of the GRU, to be your good-bye gift. I won’t open the bag. The poison is real.”

The lump in Julie’s throat choked off any words she struggled to blurt out.

“Yuliya, Julie. I was given until today to get Dmitry’s camera pen from you. I’ve tried to fend off the goons, but if I don’t have that pen now, Mr. B’s agents will force it from you.”

Julie finally managed to swallow. “Is everything about you a lie? Are you even American?”

Gareth blew a long breath through his teeth. “I haven’t lied to you. My mother is American with Welsh roots. My father? You know of him. Konstantin Firtash is a crony of Viktor Yanukovych. Right now, Kostya’s in big trouble for fraud in Russia. A handler from the GRU approached me at Facebook and gave me an ultimatum: get Dmitry’s pen or else. Julie, Kostya is not a good man, but he’s my father. When I was small, he loved me. And I don’t want to see him murdered or frozen in Siberia.

“Look, I never wanted our relationship to end this way. I never wanted it to end at all. I meant it when I said I’m crazy about you. Truth be told, my heart’s desire would be to run away with you to some place in Canada, but even there, they would hunt us down.”

“Like you hunted me?”

“They knew you lived near a castle, but only recently did Mr. B learn which one. For Christ’s sake, just give me the pen. I promise to call off the dogs. You can go free, and I won’t end up like your Dima did.”

Julie plucked the pen from her purse and waved it around. “What if I throw it in the river?”

“Don’t be stupid, Julie. What would that accomplish?”

She knew he was right. The pen needed to be handed over to the Ukrainian ambassador or to a reliable authority in the British intelligence service. But still she prevaricated. “It would go out to sea and all the secrets with it. Surely, Russia doesn’t need a copy of the plans. And there’d be no compromising material for Sir William and the rest of his sort to worry about.”

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and dark-haired, beardless face popped through the archway.

Her reflexes kicked in. She clutched the pen hard, like a knife. Wedging her thumb tightly against the pen’s top, she tucked her fist into her left armpit and spun to meet the man as he and Darkbeard piled out of the archway.

Beardless moved in to grab her throat, and she lashed out like a cat at his. She moved in closer and grabbed a wad of his shirt at the neckline, while jabbing and raking his face with the pen. She gave him a rapid knee to the groin and stabbed his cheeks again.

Gareth ripped the perfume bottle out of the bag. Darkbeard charged Gareth and was met by jet after jet of Pure Poison sprayed into his eyes and gaping mouth.

Gareth then turned to Julie’s opponent. “Move away, Julie!” he shouted and sprayed the other man’s bleeding face.

Coughing and sputtering from the spray laced with a chemical nerve agent, Darkbeard suddenly realized his fate. With a grunt, he lifted Gareth and flung him against the balcony’s low wall.

 “Gareth!” Julie screamed as she rushed toward Darkbeard. She stabbed him in the neck before landing a blow with her elbow into his left kidney.

With a raspy growl, Darkbeard shoved her aside and charged the stunned Gareth, who stumbled backward to the wall. Overshooting his mark, Darkbeard sent both himself and Gareth tumbling off the precipice.

Julie watched transfixed as Gareth plummeted into the murky depths of the Wye. With tears streaming down her face, she whispered, “Dasvidaniya, my darling Gareth.”

Then, a volley of piercing shrieks escaped from the ball of pain buried deep inside her belly.

THE END

Dear Readers

As the autumn leaves fall and the temperature drops, our Mesdames and Messieurs are in full swing with publications, a major book launch, library panels and a new film. Join us for a crackling good time.

MESDAMES ON THE MOVE

On Wednesday, November 1, from 5 to 7 p.m.  the Mesdames will be at the Parliament Street Branch, Toronto Public Library, 269 Gerrard Street East, to tell readers about the Life of a Crime Writer. Panel: Lisa De Nikolits, Blair Keetch, Lynne Murphy, Rosemary McCracken, Caro Soles. Moderator: M. H. Callway.

On  Saturday, Nov. 11, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Mme Rosemary McCracken will be a panelist and a break-out session leader at So…You Want to Write a Book?, a day-long interactive workshop for aspiring fiction and non-fiction writers at the Rouge River Community Centre, 12 Rouge Bank Drive in Markham, Ont. The break-out session she’ll be leading will be on Writing a Series. Those interested in attending can register by clicking on the link below.

CONGRATULATIONS AND PUBLICATIONS

Congratulations to Mme M. H. Callway. On Saturday, November 4, from 2 to 4 p.m., she will be hosting the launch of her new book, Snake Oil and Other Tales (Carrick Publishing) at Sleuth of Baker Street Bookstore, 907 Millwood Road.

There will be cake! Also, lots of time to browse Sleuth’s fabulous collection of mystery books. More great news:

Sleuth’s will be continuing indefinitely as a used bookstore. Marian and JD will be happy to order books for you, as well.

Congratulations to Mme Melissa Yi. Her Derringer-winning short story, “My Two Legs”, was a finalist for this year’s Macavity Award for BestMystery Short Story.

Her fantasy story, “Rapunzel in the Desert” will appear in the Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, edited by Stephen Kotowych. It will be available to book lovers everywhere December 5, 2023.

Mme Cat Mills’ latest film, Do You Hear What I Hear? premiered at Hot Docs this year as part of the Citizen Minutes cohort, celebrating average people trying to change their community for the good. Cat’s film focuses on noise pollution in Toronto and follows activist, Ingrid Buday as she fights to change Toronto’s outdated noise bylaws.

https://www.citizenminutes.ca/series-2/do-you-hear-what-i-hear

Join Cat Mills on November 8 at 6:30 p.m. at Innis Town Hall, 2 Sussex Ave. for a FREE screening of the film followed by a panel discussion with health experts, city councillors and citizen advocates as they cut through the noise before the bylaw review this fall.

NEWS AND EVENTS

Mme Lisa De Nikolits’s, literary review zine, the Minerva Reader, features a review of M. H. Callway’s Snake Oil and Other Tales and Melissa Yi’s new book, Sugar and Vice.

https://theminervareader.com/library-2023

CRIME WRITERS OF CANADA’S BREWS AND CLUES

THIS MONTH’S STORY

Our story for November is by Mme Therese Greenwood. Her historical thriller, “The Iron Princess”, appeared in the Mesdames‘ fifth anthology, In the Spirit of 13.

Dear Readers,

New books, library panels, author readings and a double book launch! Along with pumpkin spice, the fall season is in full swing for the Mesdames and Messieurs.

CONGRATULATIONS AND PUBLICATIONS

Mme Madeleine Harris-Callway’s new book of short stories, Snake Oil and Other Tales (Carrick Publishing) went live on September 30! It’s now available in ebook, paperback and hardcover. Snake Oil and Other Tales eBook: Callway, M.H.: Amazon.ca: Kindle Store

 Snake Oil and Other Tales is the second collection of short stories by author M.H. Callway. These dark tales include strange guardians, mysterious bakeries, faithful dogs and yes, the slithery reptiles that strike fear in even the toughest bro’s heart. Many were finalists for the Crime Writers of Canada Awards for Excellence. They stretch from traditional mysteries to thrillers to speculative fiction and even to horror. What unites them are the characters struggling for justice–or their own warped perception thereof.

Danny Bluestone and Corazon Amorsolo, the protagonists of Callway’s debut novel, Windigo Fire, return in the thriller, Last Island. And Dr. Benjamin Amdur, the hero of Amdur’s Cat, has a second adventure in Amdur’s Ghost, a finalist for the 2023 CWC Best Novella Award.

 Mme Melissa Yi’s September Kickstarter was a big success. Look for a December release for Sugar and Vice, Melissa’s latest book in the Hope Sze Seven Deadly Sins series.

Do feasts and fiction make you drool? Do dragons delight you? Want to catch bad guys and eat happily ever after? Sleuth Hope Sze tastes murder at Montreal’s Dragon Eats Festival in this sweet culinary thriller of food and the fantastic.

Sugar & Vice: A Mystery of Death, Dumplings, and Dragons by Melissa Yi — Kickstarter

MESDAMES ON THE MOVE

The Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem will be at the Beaches Library, 2161 Queen Street East, Toronto on Wednesday, October 18^th at 6:30 p.m. We’ll be talking about Chills, Thrills and Fun Facts of Crime Writing and share the ups and downs of being a crime author in Canada. The panel features Mesdames:Lisa De Nikolits, Blair Keetch, Rosemary McCracken, Lynne Murphy, and Caro Soles with M. H. Callway moderating.

BREWS AND CLUES

Brews and Clues, the Crime Writers of Canada monthly author pub reading event, launched on September 14th with M. Blair Keetch as guest author. Brews and Clues takes place on the second Thursday of every month. This month, it’s on Thursday, October 12th at Stout Irish Pub, 221 Carleton St., Toronto at 6:30 pm.

SAVE THE DATE!

Saturday, November 4th at 2 p.m.

Mesdames  M. H. Callway and Caro Soles are hosting a book event at our favourite bookstore, Sleuth of Baker Street, 907 Millwood Road, Toronto on Saturday, November 4th at 2 p.m. Mad is launching her new book, Snake Oil and Other Tales and Caro, her latest book in the Merculian series.

There will be cake and possibly a special guest!

Wednesday, November 1st

The Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem will be back at the Toronto Public Library, this time at the Parliament Street Branch, to present Chills, Thrills and Fun Facts of Crime Writing. Time TBD

A FRIENDLY REMINDER

The deadline for submissions to the 2024 Crime Writers of Canada Awards is December 15th Starting this year, all submissions must be in digital form. Please see the CWC’s website for the submission rules and required forms.

https://www.crimewriterscanada.com/awards/submissionrules

OCTOBER STORY

Our October free short story will be one of Mme Cheryl Freedman‘s always clever mystery scribbles. Title to TBD.

Catherine Dunphy is a critically acclaimed biographer and author of young adult novels. After a long career as a journalist, she retired to take up a life of crime…fiction.

Cathy adores bookshops and libraries. Her crime-solving librarian, Winona, is the hero of her stories in the Mesdames anthologies. Enjoy “Winona and the CHUM Chart” from our fourth collection, In the Key of 13.

WINONA AND THE CHUM CHART

by Catherine Dunphy

Tuesday morning was brisk, the kind of weather that telegraphed winter was coming, dammit. But Winona didn’t mind as she nudged aside some of the lingering leaves in the park path behind the Millartown Library. She loved Tuesdays, her day to open the old building situated in the treed dip near Main Street.  She loved its early morning serenity and silence and that’s why she always paused when she came inside the library’s back door before flicking on the series of switches that illuminated her workplace in a sudden magical flash.

She let out a satisfied breath. She twirled on her toes, arms outstretched; this was all hers. She had ninety minutes alone, alone, alone until 8:15 when her boss arrived. She hustled into the staff room, tossing her shaggy cape over her office chair. In the ‘70s someone else who was plus-sized had cherished that alpaca cape. Winona believed its somewhat mangled state made it all the more worthy of her own Size 18 love now.

With a practiced swoop, she gathered her colleagues’ used coffee mugs and lunch dishes, dropped them into the antiquated, extremely noisy dishwasher and turned it on. The racket was, as expected, excruciating.  Wincing, Winona wiped the counter and filled and set the coffee machine to start ten minutes before the others were due in.  They’d be happy to have the stuff freshly brewed for a change. Usually she’d bash the button right away for her own morning hit, but for some reason, she had gone off coffee.

Whatever. It was time for her favourite part of Tuesday. She hurried out to the main area of the library and hauled the book return bin just inside the windowless front doors back to the staff room, kicking shut its door behind her. She emptied the contents onto a long table and sat down. Here be treasures.

Winona almost rubbed her hands in glee.  She still had more than an hour to go through the  bin’s contents and remove all the pressed flowers, bobby pins, twenty dollar bills – yes, it had happened to her — love letters and gas bills with which people marked their place in books. The library never threw anything out. Well, maybe the bobby pins. Winona had seen women weeping over reclaimed mementos they’d thought gone forever and agitated men breathing more easily when that white envelope containing a large cheque was handed back to them. What people leave in library books never ceased to astound – and sometimes disgust – her. Like the time she found a condom. And that desiccated pizza slice.  

Still she eagerly fanned the pages of the book at the top of the pile, then another and another. Just bus transfers today.  She ignored the sounds of the dishwasher’s squeals and shrieks as she worked steadily , flipping open the cases of the CD discs and movie cassettes to ensure they weren’t returned empty and checking the children’s picture books to check for torn pages. She kept cello tape handy for that. 

Hang on. Winona picked up her library’s only copy of The Library Book.  In fact, Susan Orleans’ latest bestseller was the library’s newest acquisition, dropped into circulation just the day before.  People were clamouring for it.  And here it was back already. It was 336 pages; someone read it that fast?  Winona picked up the book and automatically fanned it. Its binding cracked. The book hadn’t been opened. It hadn’t been read. But there was something in it. She turned the book pages down and shook. A piece of yellowed paper fluttered and dropped onto the table.

Winona picked it up gingerly.

It was an odd shape, almost but not quite square.  Chum 30 it said in a weird puffy lower case typeface she recognized from her posters of ‘60s psychedelic concerts. It was a CHUM chart for the week ending September 14, 1974.  Winona swooned.  This was retro gold, the real thing from a time when one of Toronto’s – hell, Canada’s — biggest and brashest Top 40 hit-playing radio stations gave them away every week. She knew that most CHUM charts were small and folded, the kind you stuffed in the big back pocket of your jeans and opened up to read.  This one was different. One page front and back. Interesting, she thought. Likely a short-lived experiment before they reverted to the tried and true pocket sized version. Bet there weren’t many of these around.

There were streaks on it and she had to look closely to see that “I Shot the Sheriff” by Eric Clapton was at the top for a second week in a row beating out songs by Elton John. Paul Anka, Donny and Marie Osmond – Winona shook her head in disgust – but also Guess Who and, yes, ABBA.

 Wow. This was so cool. There was no way she was adding this to their lost and found file. And it really was a mess. The brownish red streaks almost obliterated the top album listings.  She removed her turquoise cat’s eye glasses for a quick clean before holding it up to the light so she could make out the famous names: Endless Summer Beach Boys; Band on the Run, that would be McCartney. She peered closer. Who or what was Golden Earring?

A door slammed. Winona dropped the paper which fell to the floor; she knew she hadn’t unlocked the front door yet.   

Then the door to the staff room swung open so forcefully it hit the wall.  It was her boss.  Roseann Mills was usually elegant and pulled together but this morning her hair was falling out of a messy ponytail and she’d thrown a ratty black cardigan over workout clothes. And there was a man close behind her.

 “This will disrupt our entire week. People count on the Library being open.” Winona had never heard Ms. Mills sound as upset.  “And I don’t appreciate your people putting that yellow tape all over the place.”

A look of annoyance flashed across the man’s face then vanished.

“Well, it is a crime scene,” he replied.

Winona rocked back in her chair.  “What the –,” she gasped. “What happened?”

“A woman died on your doorstep,” came the laconic reply. “Jogger found her. Beaten to death.”  He sat down opposite Winona and shoved a business card across the table. It said he was a detective and that his name was Hendricks.  His calculating eyes said he meant business.

“What time you get here this morning?”

Winona glanced over at her boss, who was leaning against the wall looking very worried.

“Winona gets in around seven o’clock on Tuesdays,” she said. “By the back door, right?”

Winona nodded, unable to speak.

“You didn’t go round to the front? See anything unusual. I don’t know, maybe like a dead body?” The detective didn’t look like he was joking.

 “I got here before 7 o’clock,” she finally managed to squeak. “But I didn’t open the front door or anything. I’ve been inside, right here working.”

The cop raised an eyebrow.

“Lady, you’ve had two police officers and an ambulance at your front door already this morning. But you didn’t hear anything.” 

“For goodness sakes.”  Ms. Mills strode to the dishwasher and shut it off mid groan. “How could she hear anything over that?”

Winona came to life. “You mean someone was killed when I was here?”  She grabbed the edge of the table

The policeman relented.  “A woman. Late thirties. Maybe early forties. We think the time of death might have been earlier this morning. Much earlier.”

“And I didn’t even know.” Winona felt sick to her stomach.

“I think Winona needs to go home now, Officer,” Ms. Mills said, gesturing to the man to follow her into her office. “She has your card.”

The man nodded at Winona and got up. “I’ll be in touch.”

The door to Ms. Mills’ office closed behind them with a click. Still Winona didn’t move. Couldn’t. Finally managing to get up from the table, she slowly retrieved her cape and bag stumbling over the CHUM chart.  She bent down to retrieve it and shoved it in her bag.

Jason was leaning on the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and deep into his computer when she walked into their kitchen.

“Knew you’d be back,” he exclaimed. “A woman found dead at the library’s front door.  F–king amazing. It’s breaking news all over the ‘net. “His dark goatee was vibrating he was so excited.  “Guess we get the day off.”

Winona threw off her cape for the second time that morning.  Jason was not the library’s most dedicated employee. He didn’t need to be. He was heir to the fortunes of the richest family in town. But he shouldn’t be treating this like something on Netflix.

 “Jason, for God’s sake. The police say she was murdered.” Winona dropped into the chair beside him.

Jason stopped tapping on his laptop, his six foot six lanky frame suddenly taut.

“Murdered. It didn’t say that on the news.” His voice was a whisper.

Then, “You okay?”

Winona took off her Princess Leja hairband and toyed with it before answering. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t see her. It was outside at the front and I went in by the back, the way I always do. The detective said it probably happened way before I got into work.”

 Jason wrapped an arm around her. “Still, you might have been in danger.”

Winona smiled at him. “I wasn’t. Ever. “

They sat silently until she suddenly had a thought. “I think I might be able to find out who she is – was.”

“How?”  Intrigued, Jason turned back tohis laptop and fired up his search engine. “Did you see something?”

Winona reached into her Peruvian woven shoulder bag and withdrew the yellowed brochure.

“I found this old CHUM chart today in the returns.”

“Gro-o-ovy.” Jason drawled as he picked it up. “Maybe it’s one of the more valuable ones. You can get ten, twenty bucks for some of ‘em.  The ones that had coupons you tore out and mailed in are really rare—“

He stopped. “What’s this stuff on it?”

Winona sighed.  Deep down she’d always known what the reddish brown streaks were. That lingering metallic smell. The aura of violence and despair.

 “Blood,” she said, more to herself than to her live-in. “And it’s got something to do with that woman’s murder.”

Jason raised an eyebrow as Winona went into the living room to retrieve her own computer. As the library’s IT specialist, it was easy for her to find who had taken out The Library Book.  A few swipes and she was looking at the library profile of a Susan Dalgleish who lived at 29 Rummer Road – definitely not the best part of town anymore. Winona scanned the extensive history of the books Susan had borrowed. She certainly read a lot.

 And lately Susan had been reading about Canadian and California pop culture.  

“Jason,” she called out. “I think I might have known her.”

He was by her side in a flash.  “Phone the cops.”

Winona said nothing, remembering the woman she’d recently helped find old touring schedules for bands, current websites for aging rock stars and more.  Although grateful for Winona’s help, she’d been so diffident, always hiding behind her curtain of dull dark blond hair. She could have been 20; she could have been 40.  Winona had noted with approval her clothes were thrift-shop finds, not her own retro punk’d style but from the classic tweed era. And with her lean frame, she rocked the look. Once Winona had tried to tell her that but the woman had immediately retreated, flushed and flustered. Winona had kept it purely professional from then on.

“Phone the cops?” Jason repeated.

Winona shook her head. She thought of Susan and how desperately she had been to receive whatever Winona could locate for her.   She thought of Detective Hendricks and his cool assessing eyes. “Not yet.”

Then, before Jason could stop her or even ask where she was going, she grabbed her cape and bag and ran out of their apartment.

The house at 29 Rummer Road had once been beautiful. No, Winona thought, looking at its curved front window and the ornate iron railing leading up stone stairs to a burnished oak door, it had once been grand.  

Now it was tired and divided into flats. Small flats, Winona thought, looking at the double row of buzzers. She pushed the ones on either side of the button labelled Dalgleish, hoping for a friendly neighbour. No response. Then she pushed the buttons of all the ground-floor flats, hoping for a nosy neighbour.  And got lucky.

“Hello?” The voice was rusty from age and lack of use.

“I’m a friend of Susan Dalgleish.” Winona rationalized that she wasn’t lying; she would have been her friend had the woman allowed it. “May I speak to you about her?”

The woman didn’t reply but the door buzzed and Winona walked in. The musty hall was dim save for a streak of light at the end coming from an open door. The tall white-haired woman standing there was gesturing to Winona.

 “I knew she was in trouble,” the woman proclaimed as Winona found herself in a surprisingly large but empty room.  Winona realized it had not always been so. She could see the outline of ornate settees and large paintings in the faded wallpaper.  “I just knew she would come to a bad end after that awful man kept coming by.”

 Winona’s head swirled.  So she was right. The dead woman was Susan Dalgleish. And the police had already talked to this woman.  But what awful man?

“I told those police officers about him,” the woman said as if reading Winona’s mind – or perhaps the look on her face. This woman was alert and shrewd. “Not that they paid any heed.  You know, the ramblings of another rattled old woman.”

Her clear gaze swept over Winona.

“But you might be different,” she said, turning away. “Although I know you were not her friend.”

Winona flushed.

The woman waved away Winona’s embarrassment.

“She didn’t have any friends.  Didn’t want any, either.”

Winona followed her through bevelled French doors to another grand room centred on a carved alabaster fireplace made golden from the morning sunlight filtering through stained glass windows. A single chair and matching sofa were the only furnishings in a room designed for entertaining.

The woman opened a side door to an office, no, a magnificent library. Book shelves lining three walls were interrupted only by a massive roll top desk, at which the woman sat herself.  She seemed to have regained her composure; in fact, she was positively regal. It was here where she belonged.  

“My name is Alice Hornsby and my family has lived in this house for more than one hundred and fifty years,” she stated as her fingers stroked the desk’s burnished wood. “I live on the main floor. All of it. The other buzzers are there to keep people away.”

Her upraised hand cut off any comment.

“I take in one or two paying guests who live on the second floor. Quite comfortably I might say. They are all carefully vetted. I insist they be quiet and cultured. Susan has – had – been with me for the past two years.”

Ms. Hornsby commanded her to a chair by the desk. “And now, you will tell me how you really know Susan.”

And so Winona told her about helping Susan in the library. But not about what she held in her purse.  The woman listened impatiently as if waiting for something specific but also something Winona wasn’t saying.  Two spots of colour appeared on the woman’s patrician cheeks.

“There’s something I think you should see,” she announced.

She unlocked the roll top and unveiled thick piles of plastic files. CHUM charts. Hundreds of them.

 Winona gawked.

 “It’s a complete set.  Worth something.  A good something.”  Alice Hornsby had noted Winona’s reaction and seemed satisfied by it.  Her eyes bore down on her. “He wanted these. I know he did. He wanted them from Susan.”

***

 “Yeah, like I would kill for another CHUM chart? She’s batty.”  Morty was as miserable and  grimy as his namesake  hole- in- the- wall music memorabilia shop in the far end of Old Town.  “I can’t give away the ones I have.”

Jason had easily tracked down Susan Dalgleish’s mystery man.  Millartown wasn’t home to that many guys with a salt-and- pepper waist-length beard still dressing as if it were the tie- dye ‘60s, a fashion decade Winona loathed.  After Jason had let her know how he felt about her running off, he had calmed down enough to insist he go to see Morty with her. As the library was still closed and they both had the day off, Winona couldn’t see a way out of it.

“You’re not the only one who gets to play detective,” Jason had said as they hoofed it across town. Winona had pulled a face but now she was glad Jason was here because Morty wasn’t looking her in the eye.

Winona knew he was lying. She just didn’t know what he was lying about.

She decided to find out.

“Look,” she said, laying aside an armload of old newspapers so she could sit. She almost regretted it when the chair swayed and tilted under her weight. She fought a wave of vertigo by   keeping both feet on the floor for balance. Then she took out the stained CHUM chart from her purse.

Morty recoiled.

“It’s ruined! How could you – Let me see.” He reached towards her.

“Not so fast,” Jason put an arm between Winona and the grasping dealer. “I happen to know that some of Canada’s most famous people collect these charts. Mike Myers. Martin Short.”

Morty snorted.  “Been reading up online, have you?”

“So what if I have?” Jason parried. “It’s a goldmine of information. Speaking of gold –” he gently took the chart from Winona. 

Morty exhaled. “Give it to me and maybe I can tell you what you want to know.”

After a moment Jason relented and handed it over. Winona noted Morty’s sudden grace and care as he turned the CHUM chart from front to back, frowning in concentration.

Then a start. A double take.  Wonder crossed his face.

“What is it? What’s there?” Winona wanted to know. She could feel Jason grow tense next to her.

Morty removed his cold coffee mug from the vicinity before lovingly placing the chart in its place. His shrug was forced.

“Nothing,” he said. “For a minute I thought – but no, it’s just one more CHUM chart that’s been disrespected. Where did you get it?”

His rheumy eyes followed the chart as Winona very carefully put it back in her bag and got up to leave.

“The library,” she said. “Where I work.”

A phone message from Roseann Mills was waiting for her when they got home.  It was back to work tomorrow.  The library was re-opening. The yellow tape was gone. So were the police. The police. Oh God. Winona sank onto a chair, stomach roiling. The CHUM chart somehow held the key to whoever killed Susan Dalgleish.  She should never have kept it; she should have handed it over then and there to that cop, but it was too late now.  She could be charged with obstruction of justice.  Maybe Jason too. And that mustn’t happen. Not to him. He was the good guy in this.  It was up to her – not him — to find out why Susan had hidden the CHUM chart in the book. Then she’d tell police everything. But first —

Alice Hornsby.   She would know.

***

The library was busy all day – crowded with gawkers checking out the scene of the crime and those who made sure to lodge their complaints at being inconvenienced by the closure.  Winona was exhausted at the end of it but needed a word with her boss before heading home.

 Ms. Mills looked equally worn out. Winona glimpsed Hendricks’ card on her desk.

“Any word from the police?’ Winona asked.

A shake of the head.

“I know who she was.” Winona plunged ahead. “Susan Dalgleish. She was in here a lot recently looking things up.”

Winona was not going to say that she’d done some looking up herself to find that out.  And that inside her Peruvian shoulder bag she had stashed some of the heavy library books Susan had been using for references. Maybe tonight at home she could figure out what the dead woman might have found in them.

Ms. Mills reached for the card and picked up the phone. “Thanks.”

Winona felt better as she left the library, much better.  Of course the police had already identified Susan even if they hadn’t made it public, otherwise why would they be talking to Alice Hornsby? But Winona wanted the cops to think she was helpful.

  And Ms. Mills hadn’t asked her how she knew it was Susan.  Finally, some luck. She straightened her shoulders and shifted her heavy bag as she crossed into the park. Tomorrow she didn’t start work until noon so there‘d be time to drop in on Alice Hornsby again. Winona had a gut feeling that the woman could help her shake the truth out of Morty.

“Hey. You. Stop.”  A hand gripped Winona’s shoulder from behind.

“Let go of me,” she yelled, whirling to face her attacker, ready to swing her purse strategically.

It was Morty, holding up both hands in surrender.

“I just wanted to talk with you,” he whinged, as if she were the aggressor.

Winona willed her heart to stop racing.

“You said you worked at the library. I waited for you to come out.”  

Winona gazed at him with disgust. To think she’d been frightened of this weasel – but steady there, she told herself. Proceed carefully now. Susan Dalgleish probably thought the same thing about this weird guy with his strange eyes and crumb-filled beard. And he may be carrying a weapon in his canvas army bag.

“What do you want to talk about?”

He looked around him.  Office workers were filling the street at the end of their work day.

“Not here.”

 Winona thought fast. “The CHUM chart. “

“You have it with you?”  Decades dropped from his voice in his eagerness.

Winona drew her bag closer to her. “Come with me.”

They walked in silence until they turned onto Rummer Road. Morty jerked to a stop as Winona had known he would. She was ready with a lie.

“Just moved in here. You know the place?”

“Nope.”

You lying scumbag, Winona thought.

 She stepped between him and the door and used her Peruvian bag to cover up the fact she was pushing Alice Hornsby’s buzzer, not unlocking the door to her phantom flat. The door clicked open. Morty reluctantly followed Winona down the hall to where Alice Hornsby stood.

The woman’s cool eyes went past Winona to Morty. A tilt of her head indicated they were to follow her and Winona grabbed Monty by the arm, practically dragging him through the empty room into the room with the fireplace and the only places to sit. Alice Hornsby strode to the arm chair beside the darkened hearth leaving Winona and Morty no choice but the sofa.

Something didn’t feel right, Winona thought as she tried to make as much space as possible between her and Morty. I am supposed to be on her side, not his.

She tried to catch Alice Hornsby’s eye. Failed.

“So, you’ve come to your senses?” Alice Hornsby said to Morty. Her voice sneered. Her face twisted into cruelty. Winona tightened, confused. Thoughts spun out of control.

“Hand it to me.” Alice Hornsby snapped her fingers.

“She has it.” A shaking Morty indicated Winona beside him.

The already dim room seemed to darken more as Alice Hornsby turned to Winona. Her long arm reached out and strong fingers wrapped themselves around the fire poker.

“How long –” Alice Hornsby knocked the poker against the fire stand and glared at Winona. “I suppose you are going to tell me that Susan – your very good friend — gave it to you?”  Her voice oozed scorn.

She rose from her chair. “You stole it. “

She crossed the floor to the sofa in two swift steps. “I would like it back.”

Winona shrank into the couch, instinctively holding her bag against her.  Alice Hornsby understood.

“It’s there,” she cried. “You have it in your bag.”

Winona saw the madness in those furious eyes before she felt the first blow of the poker.  She felt waves of pain. She heard her own screams. Her arm covered her head, trying to block the trajectory of the iron weapon.  Morty was screaming.  Stop, stop. Again, stop. I’m calling the police.  But the blows kept coming to her shoulders.  Hard metal.  Somebody pulled at her bag. Now there was nothing to protect her.  A voice urged her to turn fast, turn her back to the blows. Protect. She must protect.

A thud, gasp and it stopped. The beating stopped.  

“You okay? You okay? Tell me you’re okay.” Morty’s rasping voice sounded far away. Winona shuddered, then turned.

 A panting Morty was holding her bulging Peruvian bag over the figure on the floor. Alice Hornsby had been felled by a blow of her Peruvian bag containing Susan’s reference books.  The fire poker lay on the floor near her outstretched hand.

Then the door burst open.

“Hands up where we can see them.”  The police. They were here. Winona was safe.  But they were arresting Morty.

Winona recognized Detective Hendricks.  “Not him. She –“

Hendricks held up a hand.  “We need an ambulance,” he said into a phone.

***

“Ready to tell me now?”

Winona squinted at the police officer standing at the end of her bed. Then remembered. Hendricks.  His name was Hendricks.

She sighed, then winced.  She’d been in hospital for two days. Her broken left arm was in a cast and her fractured ribs made it hurt to breath let alone talk. Other than that everything was fine.

 “Tell you what?”

The cop echoed Winona’s sigh as he pulled up a chair by her bedside.

“Let me catch you up on things,” he said, leaning forward. “Alice Hornsby has decided to talk. Now that she no longer has a complete set of these CHUM charts — It had been desecrated is how she put it – she doesn’t care.  She won’t get the money and she can’t hang onto her house so she’s lost the fight. As well as her grandniece, but she doesn’t seem as upset about that.”

He was watching Winona carefully as he spoke.

“Susan Dalgleish was her grandniece.  Her only relative.”

Winona’s eyes widened.

“Seems she didn’t bother to tell you that.”

Winona shook her head.

“Susan was the only other person who knew about the collection.” Hancock became very still. “Besides Taubman.”

Winona  frowned. Taubman?

Hendricks tilted the chair back onto two legs. “I believe you know him as Morty. He says that a complete set of CHUM charts – like that one – was worth a lot of money. Quarter, half a million maybe. ”

That was a crazy amount of money for something they used to give away, Winona thought.  But in a way it made sense.Otherwise none of this would have happened and Susan Dalgleish might still be coming to the library.

“The girl — well she wasn’t a girl, she was 41 – knew it too. She used to drop by Taubman’s   shop. Pick his brain.” Hendricks cleared his throat. “Even took him to her place once to show him what she had.  Seems Susan figured the collection was hers because it used to belong to her mother, not Alice Hornsby.”

Hendricks’s upended chair legs hit the floor.

“Susan’s mother died when she was a kid.  Just 12. Seems that Ms. Hornsby swooped in and took everything – except Susan. She had to go into care.”

Winona let out a sigh.  What a cruel thing to do to a child.

Hendricks cleared his throat.  “She moved into Rummer Road with Hornsby last year.  She told Taubman her aunt needed her rent money because she was too proud to rent rooms to just anybody. “

That jibed, Winona thought. But Susan also may have been plotting the whole time to get back at the aunt who didn’t want to raise her. Wrecking a complete set of charts would do that, nicely.

“So here’s where you might fit in,” Hendricks said. “Hornsby has said she saw Susan filch one of the charts and stick it in a library book. Who knows why?  Maybe revenge is sweeter if just one thing is missing from an otherwise perfect set.  Maybe she wants the soon-to-be- missing chart to be somewhere safe like a library. Maybe she thinks it’s easy to get it back.  Or maybe she thinks it’s gone forever when she pushes it through the Returns slot.

“We’ll never know because Hornsby picked up that poker from her fireplace set – I think you’ve had a nodding acquaintance with it – and followed her. Tried to stop her when she figured out Susan was dumping the chart off and, well, we know what happened next.” Hendricks stood by the bed.  “We think Susan got the book into the library somehow – even while she was being bludgeoned to death. “

He stopped.  Let the silence unsettle her. “We think you may have found the missing CHUM chart that morning at work. Do you have it?”

For a moment, just one moment, Winona was tempted to tell the truth. 

But the cops had their confession. They didn’t need the CHUM chart and they didn’t need to know she had it.  Or that she had had it from the beginning.  

“No,” she said.

***

It was later afternoon, hours after the detective had left and Jason was slumped by her bedside. His go-to grin had been replaced with all the signs of worry and exhaustion. Winona reached for him.Yesterday, after they had run tests, taken X-rays, assessed all the damage Alice Hornsby had inflicted, long after she’d been cleaned and bandaged and attached to intravenous tubing, a beaming nurse had appeared by her side.

“Your baby is fine,” she’d said.

Winona had cried happy tears and reached for the phone to call Jason and tell him she now knew why the floor sometimes tilted and coffee tasted strange —when the nurse removed the receiver from her hand, reminding her it was 3 a.m.

Now she took his hand.

Jason was insisting on Spock for a name, be it boy or girl, when Winona spotted a droopy figure at her doorway. Morty Taubman looked so hangdog his beard was close to brushing his knees. He thrust a bouquet of grocery-store daisies at her, which Jason deftly intercepted as he stood to escort him out of the hospital room.

“No, let him stay,” Winona said. “I think Morty saved my life.”

Morty looked sheepish. “Whacked her with your bag.  Sorry for grabbing it. Got her right on the head.  Good thing you had those books in it. Thought she was really going to kill you. “

 “Touchdown,” Jason pumped the man’s hand and gave him the seat by the bed. Morty lowered himself carefully onto it.

“Sorry,” he said again, waving a floppy hand at cast, the tubing and the rest of the medical paraphernalia.

“Yeah,” Winona grimaced. “All this. For a CHUM chart?”

Morty looked away.

“What’s the deal with it anyway?” she asked.  “Was it worth dying for? “

A weak smile. “That’s the $64,000 question,” he said. “Actually I guess it’s now more like a quarter of a million dollar question.”

Winona got the reference to one of television’s first game shows, all right – except she still didn’t get it.

“But why?”

“First of all it was a complete set. That’s big. And that chart – the one with the streaks, the one that’s missing – turns out it was pretty special too.”

Jason and Winona exchanged a look.

“Why?” they both said.

Morty looked at his rapt audience. “Because of Golden Earring.  A Dutch band. Had a big single called “Radar Love” and the No. 6 album that week.”

“And?”

He sighed elaborately. “There are a lot of people out there who dig this stuff, ya know. “ A look of cunning crossed his face. “People with money.”

Winona signalled Jason to hand over her Peruvian bag hanging on the back of the door. 

“Look, Morty,” she said, fishing out and holding up the CHUM chart with her good arm. “Why this chart? You better tell me right now.”

Morty went pale. “I thought it was gone.”

 Winona waved it impatiently. “It’s not.”

“Here.” Morty reached towards the chart and pointed at the bottom of the page, where Winona now saw there was a scrawled signature, numbers that looked like a date and the letters S.M. “That proves it.”

“What?” Jason and Winona asked at the same time.

“That Golden Earring really did play Santa Monica on September 19 in ’74. Santa Monica. S.M.  See?   And that signature.  Band founder. And look. Nine. Nineteen, Seventy –four.  Month, day, year. The way Europeans write dates. Americans do it the other way — day, month. People have been arguing about whether this concert actually happened for a long time.  Check the ‘net.”

“So that’s what Susan found out in the library,” Winona said. “That this CHUM chart was valuable on its own.”

“Filching it would ruin her aunt’s collection but it would also make her some money? A CHUM chart?” Jason sounded as if he couldn’t believe it.

 Morty nodded. “Okay, not nearly as much as a complete set of CHUM charts. But I know some people who’d pay just to see this, let alone own it.”

He eyes lost focus as he looked past them out the hospital room window.

Like you, Winona thought to herself.

She held out the chart to Morty.

“Take it. “

“You don’t want it?” Morty was gobsmacked.

She could never look herself in the mirror if she cashed in on Susan’s death but there was more.

“Morty,” she said. “You saved our life. I’m here because of you.”

He looked embarrassed.

“Now go,” Winona said.

He sped out the door.

“Maybe he thought you were going to change your mind,” Jason said with a smirk.

For yet one more time today, Winona rested her hand on her stomach. Slowed her breathing.

 “I think I can feel something.”

Jason loped to her bedside and put his hand over hers.

“Me too,” he said.

THE  END

Lisa is the award-winning author of nearly a dozen novels, all defying the limits of genre fiction. Her work embodies elements of speculative fiction, thrillers and mystery.

Lisa’s story, Mad Dog and the Sea Dragon, was inspired by her visit to the Toronto aquarium. She later expanded it to novel form, due to be published in 2024 by Inanna Press.

Her story first appeared in the Mesdames of Mayhem’s third anthology, 13 Claws, Carrick Publishing, 2017.

MAD DOG AND THE SEA DRAGON

By Lisa De Nikolits

We met at an art gallery one lazy afternoon.

“You and me, we could be listening to Frankie singing at The Desert Inn,” he said with a sideways grin. “I always dress like this, what’s your excuse?”

We were standing shoulder to shoulder and I turned to face him. I let it show that I liked what I saw. He was a straight split between Chaz Palminteri and Anthony Mad Dog Esposito, whose stark black and white photograph I had been admiring on the wall.

This man never really left the jungle, the caption under the photograph read. New York Daily News, 1941, picture credit, Weegee.

“He was nuts,” I said, gesturing to Mad Dog.

 “Not as much as he would have liked to be. Him and his brother pleaded insanity to try to get off a murder charge, they barked and hit their heads on the table at the trial, they howled and cried and behaved like animals for the whole thing.”

“So that’s why they called him Mad Dog?”

“Nah. The New York police commissioner called him and his brother ‘mad dog killers’ for what they did. They killed a man in an elevator for a few hundred bucks and then they ran out into the street and started shooting everybody. That’s the part that was nuts. William, the younger brother, shot a cop and then a taxi driver tried to save the cop and then he – the taxi driver – got shot in the throat but he lived and the cab company got him a new car for his troubles.”

He paused to take a breath. “The whole Esposito family were hoods, the father had done time, the third brother was in prison, the two sisters were thieves. But the mother was behind the whole thing. Mothers. The root of all evil if you ask me.”

He fell silent and turned to look at Mad Dog Esposito again and I thought I had lost him and I struggled to think of something to say. I panicked. Things had seemed to be going really well but now it had come to a grinding halt. My sister had given me a bunch of lines to use but I couldn’t remember any of them, my mind was a complete blank and I felt close to tears. I was going to ruin this before it even started. To my relief, he picked up the thread of conversation.

“Look at Ma Barker,” he said, turning back to me. “I don’t care what they said, she made her boys and her husband do what they did. She led that gang, I don’t care what anybody said about her being innocent. And Violet Kray, Ronnie and Reggie’s mother. It was all her fault too. She used to dress Reggie and Ronnie up like little girls after her baby girl died. No wonder they were both bisexual paranoid schizophrenics. Violet killed Reggie’s wife, Frances, and made it look like a suicide. Mothers are behind most gang wars and crime. Women. You can’t live with them, you can’t live without them.”

He shot a glance at me and gave a shrug as if he was about to turn and leave and I fired a question to stop him. 

“What happened to the Mad Dog brothers?”

“Their pathetic attempts to look crazy didn’t work. Him and his brother were electrocuted in 1942.”

He looked angry about something and once again I felt like I had ruined the great start to our conversation and I frantically fished around for a way to get us back on track.

“I love these photographs,” I said in my most practiced sultry voice and I could see his mood lift again, his shoulders relaxed and he smiled, a halfway twisted smile that I wondered if he practiced in front of the mirror.

“Yeah,” he said. “Weegee. Great photographer. His real name was Arthur Fellig. He got his nickname after the boardgame for his weird way of knowing where to be when a story broke. He said it was just in his blood.”

“You’re a wealth of fascinating information,” I purred. Why couldn’t I remember what my sister had told me? We had practiced often enough. But all I could think of was cigar smoke and Paco Rabanne. Could you even get Paco Rabanne anymore? Obviously, yes.

“Paco Rabanne,” I said and he smiled and he straightened his tie. His suit was charcoal pin-stripe and he had a blue tie and matching folded handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. His shirt was crisp white and he shot his cuffs, giving me a glimpse of gold cufflinks.

“Yeah. So what’s a dame like you doing in a joint like this?”

I smoothed my form-fitting red dress over my hips and made sure my chiffon scarf was draped just so. I was wearing six-inch heels and I was still only eye level with his chest, this man was a linebacker.

 “I could ask the same of you,” I said, looking up at him, trying for coy. “You look more like a business man than an art aficionado.” I figured he’d like feisty and he did.

“Well, you gotta love Weegee,” he said. “He used to say the easiest kind of a job to cover was a murder because the stiff would be laying on the ground. He couldn’t get up and walk away or get temperamental. He would be good for at least two hours.” He laughed like this was the funniest thing. “He also said murder is my business. I can relate.”

His last sentence sent chills up my spine but I forced myself to smile, full wattage, trying for Jessica Chastain if she’d been a star in the late 50’s.

He grinned and moved closer to me and I figured I was in. But I didn’t have big boobs. A guy like this, he’d want big boobs and I’m tall, with a good round ass and a tiny waist and long legs with slender calves and a finely turned ankle if I say so myself but there’s no getting away from the fact that my boobs are like teacups. I sighed.

“Bored of me already,” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

I shook my head. “My boobs are too small for a guy like you,” I said and he gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“See, I knew I liked you already,” he said. “You tell it like it is, no beating around the bush. Hey, I wouldn’t worry about it. My wife’s stacked, double D’s and I don’t much care for her.”

His wife. I shut the whole thing down with a look and turned away but he grabbed my elbow.

“Don’t be like that,” he said and he held my hand between both of his. His hands were enormous and slightly damp.

“This is nuts,” I said, my voice breathy like Marilyn’s. “I met you like three seconds ago, what’s with the electricity between us?”

He grinned and pulled me closer.

“Maybe it’s Dog Esposito getting me so excited,” I whispered in his ear. “I’ll be honest, I crush on crazy criminals. This is the third time I’ve come to see this exhibit and now you’re here.”

He caressed my palm and I leaned into him, my eyes shut, my breath coming fast.

“Crazy criminals aren’t all they’re made out to be,” he said but I only half heard him. The Paco Rabanne and his touch and the whole situation I was in was making me feel dizzy and I worried for a moment that I was going to faint.

“Oh, we’ll have ourselves some fun, you and me,” he said, and all I could do was nod.

“You want to go someplace?” he asked. I nodded and that’s how it all started. Me, letting him know that I wanted him, with Mad Dog leaning over my shoulder and this man, all big and handsome, and the gallery lighting throwing shadows like cloaks and daggers.

But he was a gentleman. He took me for coffee. The place was deserted except for us.

“Tell me about you,” he said while I dipped my finger into cappuccino foam and licked it clean.

“I was born into the wrong era,” I said. “In my real life, I’m a late night janitor in a high-rise office. Believe me, you’d have a healthy fantasy world if that was your life too. I spend my spare time and money, not that there’s much of either, sifting through thrift stores looking for garments from a better time. I’ve got quite the wardrobe by now, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

“Girl like you should have new clothes,” he said. “Shiny. Styling, yes. But new.”

I shrugged. “It is what it is,” I said. “No use in complaining. And you? Tell me about you.”

He was silent. “I’ve gotta be careful,” he said. “My life’s complicated. My work, my family, it’s all complicated. I’ve got a wife, like I said but let’s not talk about her. She’s a piece of work but let’s not go there. I’ve got a daughter. The apple of my eye.”

He dug out his wallet and showed me a picture of Anne of Green Gables, red-hair, braids, freckles and all.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he said. “God help the boy who lays a hand on her. She’s only ten years old, so I’m okay for a while. I wish I could lock her up in a tower forever, keep her safe from the world.”

“She’s pretty,” I said. Kid looked like she thought her dad was Santa and the Easter bunny all in one.

“Enough about me,” he said, “I want to know more about you.”

I felt like I had run out of things to say and I hesitated but luckily for me, he looked at his watch. “Oh darn. Listen babe, I gotta run. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“I’m good,” I said. “I’ll catch the streetcar.”

“Nah, let me give you a ride. But listen, come here, you’re driving me nuts. I’m giving you some warning here, I’m going to kiss you, babe, I can’t help myself. It’s kismet that we met like we did.”

“So stop talking already and kiss me,” I said and he did and we were locked into each other when a loud nasal voice broke the moment.

“Get a room people,” the voice said and we broke apart and looked up to see the skinny teenage barista standing there, hands on his hips. “Don’t you think you guys are too old to be deep-throating it in a public place?” He grinned at us, a stupid goofy smile, not a care in the world.

My guy stood up and adjusted his suit and next thing the kid was crumpled on the floor trying to breathe.

“What’s wrong, kid?” my guy growled. “You can’t handle a punch from a geriatric like me, huh? Come on, babe, let’s get out of here.”

We left the guy on the floor and I tottered after my new boyfriend, wondering if I really could handle what I had gotten into.

He gave me a ride home and when I updated my sister, she seemed satisfied.

“I told you,” she said. “We’re gonna land the big fish this time.”

The next time we met, it was at the bar at the Four Seasons hotel and he had booked a room on the fourteenth floor, with a view of the city that stretched for miles.

“I hope you don’t think I’m presumptuous,” he said as we rode up on the elevator. “I have to watch who I am seen in public with, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” I said but my heart was hammering in my chest like a nail gun.

When we got to the room, he ordered champagne and an array of desserts and pastries.

“My mother watches what I eat like a hawk,” he said, biting down on a cream-filled éclair and washing it down with champagne. “Now my wife, she wouldn’t dare say a word to me but mothers can say whatever they like. You never get out from under the thumb of your mother.”

 “Never, ever talk about his mother,” my sister had told me. “Italian matriarch, she’s like the Virgin Mary and the Queen of England all rolled into one. The woman is a saint to him. I met her once. She was like Hannibal Lector in drag. She’s more dangerous than I can tell you. When he talks about her, just nod.”

I nodded.

“You’re not eating, babe?” My guy drew my attention back to the spread in front of us. He was chewing on a custard Danish, crumbs flying everywhere.

“Don’t want to ruin my figure,” I said, running my hands over my waist suggestively. Actually I could eat like a horse and never put on an ounce, something my sister constantly reminded me, as if that was my fault. If she even walked past a muffin, she gained a pound. But I was sick with nerves now and couldn’t eat a thing. I couldn’t even take more than a sip of champagne. What if I didn’t get the sex right? What if he didn’t like me?

“I’m nervous,” I blurted out. “I’m worried you won’t like me or find me attractive. I just want you to like me.”

“Oh honey,” he said and he came over to me and pulled me up out of the chair I had been sitting in. “You have no idea how much I like you already. I haven’t been able to think about anything except you. I can’t concentrate. I can’t think straight. Come here, let me show you just how much I want you.”

And he did. And it turned out the size of my boobs was perfectly fine, thank you very much, and when he cupped my ass in his big hands, it seemed like it was all working out just like we had planned.

I lay on my side as he slept next to me, his arm draped over my waist and I looked out at the stretched out city below and I thought that maybe for once, I really did have the world at my feet.

“I just don’t want to screw it up,” I said to my sister when I was getting ready for a date. “What if he gets bored of me? What if I say something stupid?”

“You can handle it,” my sister said when I told her my concerns. “You just don’t think you can. Why someone with your looks has such low self-esteem is beyond me. Let me tell you, if I had your looks, I’d own the world. Frickin’ own it.” I had lost count of how many times she had told me that in my life. “The mistake you made in the past,” she continued, “was dating good looking losers who folded like cheap tents when it counted. This time, just listen to me, do what I tell you and you’ll come out the winner.”

I nodded. I didn’t agree with her that I had low self esteem. And I was no floozy. I had only fallen in love with one guy and he had let me down badly, that much was true but you couldn’t help who you fell in love with, it just happened.

My sister had always been more like a mother to me than a sister.

When I was five, my father came home and found my mother passed out on the sofa, drunk. He sat down next to her and he looked at me. I was sitting on the floor, waiting for my sister who was making me chocolate milk and toast for supper.

“I can’t take it any more,” my father said to me, and I remember exactly how he said it. He was very matter-of-fact, very calm.

Then he turned back to my mother and he pressed a cushion to her face, pushing down on her while her legs thrashed and flailed and drummed against the arm of the sofa.

I wet my pants and sat there in a puddle while my father killed my mother and my sister made my supper in the kitchen. She didn’t hear a thing.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” my father said and then he got up and left me alone with my mother who was staring straight at me with bloodshot eyes. Not that bloodshot was anything new.

I don’t know how long it was before my sister came in with my supper and when she saw my mother lying there, she dropped the toast and the chocolate milk and the brown puddle spread into my pee and I just looked at my sister and stuck my thumb in my mouth.

“Where’s dad?” she asked urgently and I shook my head.

She ran to the bedroom and she was gone a long time. When she came out, she said she had found him and she needed to phone the cops. He had hanged himself, off the doorknob in the bedroom. I remember I wondered why she had been in there so long with his dead body but I couldn’t ask her because I had forgotten how to speak.

It took me a long time to talk again after the murder suicide and that’s when my sister became my mother, my best friend and my guardian angel.  We went to live in a bunch of foster homes and I escaped into books, reading anything I could get my hands on. I loved Wuthering Heights best of all and when I met Joey at one of the homes, I thought he was my Heathcliff forever. He was the love of my life. I was sixteen and my life finally seemed good. I was even happy for a while but a couple of years later, Joey got arrested for armed robbery and that was the end of that. I never stopped loving him, not for a moment but my sister never let me see him again. I would have visited him in prison but she wouldn’t let me.

So I made up this fantasy world where I was a big movie star with elegance, grace and style and I spent hours in thrift stores, finding the right garments that a real star would wear. I practiced talking in a slow and famous way, keeping my voice lazy and even. I pictured myself on a big screen wherever I went, like the world was watching me with all my grace and loveliness and I never let myself slip. My name was Vickie but I changed it to Jessica, after Jessica Lange. I thought I looked a lot like her. And no one was allowed to call me Jess or Jessie. I was Jessica.

My sister’s name is Glennis. And she told me all the time that I had ruined her life. But it wasn’t me who ruined her life. What ruined my sister’s life is that she’s not like me. She’s not a looker. It’s like she got the opposite of everything I did. I’m tall, she’s short, I’m willowy, she’s a dumpling, I’ve got tiny tits, she’s loaded. When looks were being handed out, she came out on the short end and there isn’t one thing about her that is pretty and if you ask me, that’s why she was so mean to me all the time. And I felt bad for her, how would I feel if I looked like she did? I’d be angry with life too and my heart broke for her when I saw how people looked at her.

“Life’s not fair and that’s just the way it goes,” she often said but she would look at me accusingly, like it was all my fault that she wasn’t pretty and she’d never had a man to love her.

Apart from Joey, and he didn’t count anymore, my sister was the only person in my life.

“Why do you need friends when you’ve got me?” she asked me when I made plans with schoolmates and after a few tries, I just gave up. It was easier that way.

“Do what I tell you,” she said again, when I told her I was worried I was going to screw things up with my guy. “I’ll make sure you land this man, get him in the bag, hook, line and sinker.”

And she did well. I paid attention to what she said and I worked hard and not even a month later, my guy made me give up my job and he moved me into a brand new condo with a view of the lake. He’d never been to my place, I’d told him I shared a basement apartment with another janitor but he hadn’t cared about those kinds of details about my life.

“You don’t need to be handling anybody’s garbage,” he said. “You’re my girl now and I’ll take care of you. Thing is, I got some rules. First off, you don’t get to talk about my wife. Ever. Next, you do not step out on me. Thirdly, you tell me where you are, twenty four seven. Fourth. Do not steal from me. If you need money for something, you just got to ask me. You wear my gifts, you do not sell them. Number Five. You always gotta look like a million bucks and smell like a peach. I don’t want to turn up and find you in your pj’s with your hair from yesterday. One more thing. You’re only out if I say you’re out. Out of this – you and me. Never think you can skip town on me, you got that? Wait. One more thing. Don’t ever ask me what I do for a living. Any questions?”

“I got it,” I said. “ But I will ask one thing of you and if you agree, then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I want a leafy sea dragon,” I said. “It won’t be cheap. It won’t be easy to get. And it will cost you about ten grand.”

“A leafy sea dragon,” he repeated and he smiled.

“There’s one at the aquarium,” I said, “I can show you.”

“I know what a leafy sea dragon is,” he said. “Looks like a fancy long seahorse in a wedding dress. They’re special, just like you, babe, beautiful and delicate. Sure, I’ll get you one.”

“How do you know what it is?” I asked.

“I take my kid to the aquarium a lot,” he said. “She loves them too. You’ve got good taste.”

I wasn’t sure why I asked for a leafy sea dragon. Maybe it was because I thought there was no way he could get me one and that my asking would shut down this crazy thing once and for all.

I was glad I never told my sister about me asking for the leafy sea dragon because she would have killed me. She would have said I was self-sabotaging and ruining everything.

Now, here’s the thing. My sister has worked for my guy for ten years. Ten years and he still can’t remember her name. She works in the accounts department, faithfully handling all kinds of stuff and no matter how many hours she logs, or how much money she saves him or how many secrets she keeps, he can never remember her name. He calls her doll or cookie but in ten years, he has never once said her name and finally, one day, she had enough and that’s when she got the idea for us to work him over.

 She had realized that the girlfriend on the side was no longer in the picture and that it was time for him to get himself a newbie. It was all her idea. She knew all about previous girlfriends, all Jessica Rabbit look-alikes that he’d kept in gilded cages. Clothes, cash, jewelry – my sister said we could collect a real good stash and head to Florida. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, she said. And I didn’t have to do anything except look pretty.

“Nice work if you can get it,” she said and she sounded bitter like always and I wondered if she had a crush on my guy and that was the real reason she wanted to get me in to score the big bucks. Maybe it was her way of getting revenge. But wasn’t she putting me in the line of danger? But would she do that?

“If they all had it so good, why did they leave?” I asked and my sister gave me an even look.

“Who says they left? You’ll have to be careful. But don’t worry, I know how his timing works, I’ll get you out when the time comes. And who knew, all your bargain basement fifties clothes will actually be good for something. All this time, I thought your obsession with dressing like a vintage calendar girl was a waste of time and money but it’s going to turn out to be perfect for what we need.”

Her admission didn’t make up for her nasty comments every time I had brought home a new five dollar gem of a dress or a pair of shoes that fit me just so but I held my tongue. If this scored us the big time, it wasn’t worth arguing about.

As luck would have it, she heard him talking about the WeeGee exhibit and she knew exactly when he was going to the gallery. So we came up with the plan, I got all dolled up, and next thing, Bob’s your uncle, I was sitting in my gilded cage and Daisy the leafy sea dragon was happily waving her lacy little fins at me and floating around her five hundred gallon tank.

My guy had no idea that I had only seen a leafy sea dragon because of him. He’d had to cancel a trip to the aquarium with his daughter and he had given the tickets to my sister because he had chewed her head off about something and then he couldn’t go with his kid and even although he couldn’t remember my sister’s name, he gave her the tickets.

The aquarium bored me but when we found the sea dragon, I fell in love. There was this perfectly beautiful little creature, with her lacy fins spinning and waving, and that perfect tiny horse face looking me, only at me.

And there was me looking at her. I could see my reflection in the glass. I was lovely too, exotic even, with my careful coiffure and my perfect red lipstick and what did I have to show for it? Nothing. The sea dragon was stuck in her cage and I was stuck in mine. My life was a cage. So what if I was beautiful? It’s not like it ever got me anything except my sister’s quiet rage and my own heart broken.

Which is why, when my sister told me about her cockamamie plan, I agreed to do it. I wanted to try to be something more than a late night janitor with thrift store dress-up dreams. Maybe I wanted to prove to my sister that I was worth something. Or maybe I was tired of being poor. It sounded nice to have a guy look after me and not have to worry about money all the time and it would be nice to not have to live with my sister. And to be honest, the whole thing made me feel like I was the star of the show, like I was playing a role in a Dashiell Hammett book, with shady gangsters with names like Whistler, and beautiful women who wore dresses made of Crêpe de Chine.

And then when my guy asked popped the big question about setting me up for real, the leafy sea dragon popped into my head and I asked for her on a whim and my guy said sure, it wouldn’t be easy but for me, anything.

I settled into a routine pretty quickly and it wasn’t too bad at first. I got to buy all the books I wanted and I read for all the hours of the day and night. And I can’t say I minded the fancy jewelry boxes that came filled with glittering gems or the envelopes of cash that elevated my wardrobe to that of a real star.

But I wasn’t in love with him and I couldn’t even find a way to like him and sometimes when we were having sex, I felt like I was a custard Danish he was chewing on. And it was horrible, never knowing when he was going to show up. I had to be ready, on call all the time and when I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, my stomach clenched.  He liked to surprise me by coming at all kinds of different hours like he was testing me and after a while, I couldn’t even concentrate on my books, I was listening for that sound, that grinding sound that told me it was time to sit up and look happy like a good puppy dog.

And now, it’s six months later.  I am sitting here in my prison, dressed to the nines, waiting for my guy and Daisy is looking at me inquisitively, like she wants to know what’s going to happen next. “I don’t know,” I whisper to her. “I don’t know.”

 I try to stop myself from picking at my cuticles because my guy hates it, he says only poor drug addicts pick at themselves until they bleed. But I get a release from the pain, it helps me focus my worry and fear.

“When will it be time to get out?” I asked my sister the last time I had seen her. We met once a week in the hats and glove section of the department store and we talked like spies do, side by side, facing forwards, pretending to be strangers who just happen to be muttering at each other, like that’s not obviously weird or anything.

“Not yet,” she said, trying on a pair of lambs’ wool gloves.

“When is yet?” I asked. “My life is killing me.”

“Poor baby,” my sister said. “Living in the penthouse, being treated like a queen. Suitcases of cash to spend on whatever you want. Sex with a gorgeous man. Yeah, you’ve really got it tough.”

Sex with a gorgeous man? I swung around to face her, not caring who might see us arguing.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” I asked. “You’ve always been in love with him.” I saw the hatred flare in her eyes as she looked at me.

“But why set me up with him?” I asked when I saw she wasn’t going to answer me. “What good would that do you? Is it the money? You know I am saving as much as I can, for you and me, just like we planned.”

She was struggling for words, I could see she was thinking half a dozen things and that she wanted to say something but she couldn’t find the right words.

“You and him. You deserve each other,” she finally said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Talk to me. I don’t get it.”

“He thinks you love him,” she laughed. “So stupid. I like to look at him and think to myself, buddy, you’ve got no idea how you are being played, played by me! Nameless, faceless me! What would he think he if knew?”

I felt dizzy and the department store lights seemed to swell like crazy faces and I nearly stopped breathing.

“Do you plan to tell him somehow?” I asked, hardly able to talk. “He’ll kill me. And he’ll kill you.”

“Like I’ve got so much to live for,” she said. “I’m nothing but a blob. No one sees me. I don’t matter to anyone. I’ll never be happy. I’ve never been happy, not once, not my whole life.”

“You’ve got me,” I said. “We’ve got each other. We’ve always have had each other. Through everything. You’re just upset now. Think about our lives in Florida, how we’ll live in the sunshine and never have to worry again. We’ll be happy then, we will be.”

But would we be happy? Who was I kidding? My sister was right. She would never be happy. And me? I didn’t think I could find a way to be happy either, not even with all the money in the world.

I was silent and we turned away from each other and starting touching the gloves again, picking up random pairs.

“Maybe,” she finally said, “his mother fill find out. If you ask me, you should be worried about her, not him. I get the feeling she doesn’t approve of him having fancy girls on the side. But you know what? I like her. She stopped by the office and we got chatting. What do they call people like her? Salt of the earth, that’s it. Salt of the earth.”

“Tell me,” I said, struggling to get the words out, the words that had been stuck in my throat for over twenty years, “what were you doing in the bedroom all that time with dad’s dead body?”

She stared at me. “You’re asking me that now? Why now?”

“I always wondered,” I said.

She shrugged. “I was letting him finish the job. He could never get anything right, our father. So I stood there and I made sure he did it right, for once.”

Then she left me. She didn’t say another word, she just turned and left. And I didn’t know what to do. Would she tell my guy? Could I even go back to my apartment? But where else could I go? What else could I do? So I went home and I watched Daisy float this way and that, and I tried to figure out what to do.

I can’t tell Daisy what I am really thinking because I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that my guy has the place bugged. So I press my face to the glass of her tank and I know that Daisy knows. She knows that I have no choice. I’ll have to kill my guy. And I’ll need to be packed and ready. I’ll take all my fancy clothes and all my jewels and my stash of money and I’ll leave and I won’t go to Florida, I’ll go somewhere glamorous like Las Angeles and maybe I’ll try my hand at acting. I’ll become a star and then it will serve them right, both of them. I try to think but my head hurts and the glass of Daisy’s tank is cool and soothing against my forehead.

I’ll make sure you’re looked after, I tell her silently. Don’t worry. I’ll never let you down.

I don’t have a phone. I’m not allowed one. I am too afraid to buy one. I think about trying to call my sister from a pay phone. My sister hasn’t met me for our drive-by hello after that terrible conversation. I walked around the hats and gloves for hours on our appointed meet-up day, picking things up and putting them down but she never showed. I was sure she would come back and say she was sorry, that she had never meant to say the things she had said, that she loved me and our plan was a good one and she had just been tired that day. Maybe my guy had been rude to her and she had taken it out on me. I was so sure she would show up and tell me everything was going to be okay. But she didn’t and that’s when the real terror began.

It was time to face the facts. Life’s not fair and that’s just the way it goes. My sister watched my father die. I watched my mother being murdered. And now I’d have to rely on myself to get out of this.

I don’t want to die. So I sit and watch Daisy and I know that one day, I’ll come up with a plan. I will kill my guy and I’ll make my great escape. I just don’t have that part figured out yet.

And now I’m not sure how much time has passed. I have the terrible urge to suck my thumb but I sit on my poor picked-at hands instead. All I do know is that I can’t remember the last time I ate and I need to take a bath. Nerves have left me fragrant as a marathon runner’s old shoes and my hair passed yesterday’s sell-by-date by a long shot. Why hasn’t my guy come? And he was supposed to bring the fellow who cleans Daisy’s tank which is looking worrying cloudy. The apartment is filled with dead air and I can’t explain the silence.

There’s a knock at the door and I jump up in fright. Why is my guy knocking when he’s got the key? But then my heart fills with joy – it’s my sister, she’s come to say she’s sorry, she’s come to rescue me. We’ll make our big getaway together and go and live our lives in the sun.

I rush to the door and pull it open. The big wide smile on my face is killed by what I see.

I’ve never met the woman before in my life but I know who she is. I am looking up at my guy’s mother. She’s tall like him and just about as wide and the expression on her face doesn’t reassure me.

“I thought it was time we had a little visit,” she said, pulling on a pair of gloves which alarmed me even more. “Step aside dearie and let me in.”

Enjoy the Summer, Dear Readers!

Another published story from Mme Melissa, a book being readied for publication by Mme Madeleine. Mme Lisa is back from the heady experience of the Shetland Noir conference and Mmes Madeleine and Madona are looking westward towards When Words Collide.

CONGRATULATIONS AND PUBLICATIONS

Congrats to Mme Melissa Yi for her story, “Brain Candy”, published in the July/August issue of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. And she’s listed as an author on the cover!

Melissa Yi

Mme M. H. Callway announces her new book, Snake Oil and Other Tales, a collection of ten of her published stories and novellas. Published by Carrick Publishing. Tentative date, October 2023. Stand by for the cover reveal soon!

MESDAMES ON THE MOVE

Looking forward to When Words Collide conference to be held August 3^rd to 6^th in Calgary, Alberta.  Mmes M. H. Callway and Madona Skaff are participating on several crime fiction panels.

Although the Festival is currently sold out you can still get on the waiting list for passes and there are some free events open to the public that don’t require a pass. Here is the link to get more information and to get on the waiting list.

https://www.whenwordscollide.org/#soldoutblog

Look for full details on the festival in our August MoM. whenwordscollide.org/documents/WWC2023 Quick Guide.pdf

Mme Lisa de Nikolits had a marvellous time at Shetland Noir, the conference created by leading crime writer, Ann Cleeves, OBE.  

Pictured: Ann Cleeves and Lisa de Nikolits

NEWS

Judy Penz Sheluk announced that a new Superior Shores anthology will be published in 2024.  Stand by for more news about the theme. Submissions slated to open in October 2023.

For more information check out Judy’s update on the anthology.

THIS MONTH’S STORY

We’re delighted that the Mmes free story in July is by Mme Lisa de Nikolitis. “Mad Dog and the Sea Dragon” was first published in 13 Claws, Carrick Publishing, 2017. Lisa expanded the story into a novel to be published by Inanna Press in 2024.

Melodie Campbell’s story, “The Kindred Spirits Detective Agency” is now up on the Mesdames of Mayhem website. This light-hearted thriller appeared in in our latest anthology, In the Spirit of 13, (Carrick Publishing, 2022.)

Also please take note: the launch of Melodie’s latest book, The Merry Widow Murders, which was to take place this Saturday, June 17th has been rescheduled for Saturday, September 9th, at A Different Drummer bookstore, Burlington, Ontario.

June is a hot month for the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem! We have several exciting events happening, including MOTIVE and Shetland Noir where we have star power.

We’re continuing our mission to promote Canadian crime fiction through a month-long lecture series as well as attending exciting book launches. See you there, Readers!

NEWS AND EVENTS!

A SUCCESSFUL WORD ON THE STREET

Toronto’s open-air book festival, Word on the Street, just wrapped up on May 27/28th. The weather cooperated with glorious sunshine and big crowds. Great to be back at Queen’s Park Crescent. The Mesdames and Messieurs sold lots of books, reconnected with fellow authors and met new readers, including celebrities.

Here’s Toronto mayor candidate, Olivia Chow, at our booth with Mme Lynne Murphy!

Many thanks for Mme Caro Soles and friend, Nancy Kilpatrick, for organizing and to M. H. Callway, Lisa De Nikolits, Blair Keetch, Rosemary McCracken, Lynne Murphy and Sylvia Warsh.

MOTIVE CRIME AND MYSTERY FESTIVAL, JUNE 2nd to 4th

Catch the Mesdames and Messieurs from June 2nd to June 4^th, at MOTIVE Crime and Mystery Festival in Toronto. There’s a packed schedule of events!

On Friday June 2 at 6 PM,  Mme Melodie Campbell will be interviewed by Canadian crime fiction icon, Maureen Jennings, creator of the world-famous Murdoch series. Afterwards there’s the launch of Melodie’s 17th book, the first in her new crime fiction series, The Merry Widow Murders. 

On Saturday June 3rd at 11:30 am Mme Lisa de Nikolitis will interview award-winning Canadian crime writers Dietrich Kalteis and Sam Wiebe at the Lakeside Terrace at Harbourfront Center.

On Sunday June 4 at 11:00 AM at the Lakeside Terrace at Harbourfront Centre, Mme Melodie Campbell joins Jonathan Whitelaw and Sam Shelstad for the panel discussion: Comic Crime Capers.

Then at 1-2:30 PM you can join Melodie again in the Main Loft in Harbourfront Center for her Masterclass: Comedy In Crime.

Love humorous crime novels and/or want to add humour to your own stories? Join award-winning author Melodie Campbell as she shows you how she does it with examples, and breaks down the various types of humour you can include in your own work, or merely enjoy in your reading. A fun, relaxing 90-minute workshop with “Canada’s Queen of Comedy” (Toronto Sun). All writing levels welcome.

The above are ticketed events. You can attend MOTIVE using a Day or Weekend Pass. For more information on tickets and pricing, visit the website here.

READINGS BY CRIME WRITERS OF CANADA

June 3rd and 4th the Mesdames and Messieurs will be well-represented in the Crime Writers of Canada booth by Blair Keetch, Lynne Murphy, Rosemary McCracken and Sylvia Warsh.

During the day, they’ll be selling and signing their books at the CWC booth from 11 am to 4 pm. Later on they’ll be reading from their work. Readings begin on Friday, June 2nd at 5 pm. On Saturday and Sunday, readings begin at 4:30 pm.

This part of MOTIVE is free and open to the public.

INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE

Mme Lisa de Nikolitis will be part of the Shetland Noir conference to be held on the – you guessed it – Shetland Islands from June 15th – 18th. Her journey there includes a 12 hour ferry ride from Aberdeen!

Lisa will be moderating the panel, When you don’t know who to trust.

Shetland Noir was founded by legendary writer, Ann Cleeves, creator of the Vera Stanhope, Jimmy Lopez and Matthew Venn series.  The conference has a program packed full of internationally known writer events, workshops, panel discussions and outings. It also includes film, music, live performance, as well as other “noir” related content.

BOOK LAUNCHES AND DISCUSSIONS

BOOK LAUNCHES

Lisa will be interviewing Dietrich Kalteis at his book launch on Saturday June 3rd from 3:00 to 5:00 PM at the Supermarket, 268 Augusta Street in Toronto’s Kensington Market.

In his new book, The Get, anti-hero, Lenny Ovitz, has problems: he’s up to his eyes in debt and his wife wants a divorce. He comes up with a scheme to solve all his problems.

On Saturday, June 17^th, 2 pm, Mme Melodie Campbell will host the public launch of her new book, The Merry Widow Murders.

The launch will be at A Different Drummer Bookstore, 513 Locust St., Burlington.

LECTURES AND DISCUSSIONS

Mme    Lynne Murphy is heading up a 4-week lecture series, Crime Writing in a Cold Climate, about Canadian crime fiction for Senior Adult Services.

Dates are every Friday at 2 pm, beginning June 2^nd. This is a ticketed virtual event. For more information on how to register, visit the SAS website here.

Every week, Lynne will have a guest presenter. From L to R, June 2nd, Lynne and M. H. Callway discuss police procedurals. On June 9th, she and Rosemary McCracken analyze amateur sleuths. On June 16th, Lynne and Melodie Campbell examine thrillers and historicals. And at the final session, Lynne and guest, Lorna Poplak, discuss the enduring popularity of true crime.

Tuesday, June 13th, Mmes J.E. Barnard and Therese Greenwood join Erik D’Souza and Ludvica Boota from Crime Writers of Canada on Facebook Live. They will demystify the CWC awards judging process, discuss the upcoming 2023 awards, and encourage both entries and potential jurors. Time for the event TBD.

CONGRATULATIONS GO TO…

Mme Melissa Yi’s fantasy story, “Rapunzel in the Desert”, has been nominated for an Aurora Award. It was published in Issue 122 of On Spec magazine.

Melissa also has a piece in Crime Reads about creating believable Asian characters.

“That’s the first secret: think of your character as a human being...“

THIS MONTH’S FREE STORY

June’s story is by our Queen of Comedy, Melodie Campbell. In her light-hearted romantic thriller, “The Kindred Spirits Detective Agency”, ghosts from the 1930s stick around to help the living.

Melodie’s story will go live on Thursday, June 15th.

Big congrats to our Derringer Winner, Mme Melissa Yi, for yet another amazing achievement. Her story, “Rapunzel in the Desert”, is nominated for this year’s Aurora Award, sponsored by the Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Association!

Melissa’s story was published in On Spec Magazine, Issue 122.

And if you are in Ottawa tomorrow, do stop by and check out the preview of Melissa’s play, Terminally Ill, based on the third book of her Dr. Hope Sze mystery series.

Preview will be Saturday, May 13th, 6:30 pm at Lab O.

Mme Mad was interviewed by Erik De Souza of Crime Writers of Canada. Erik is chatting with all of the nominees for the CWC awards – close to 50 authors!

Mme Mad is nominated in two categories for her short story, “Must Love Dogs- or You’re Gone” and her novella, “Amdur’s Ghost”. Amdur’s Ghost appeared in In the Spirit of 13, (Carrick Publishing, 2022.)

Facebook: https://fb.watch/ktlTc-sYdm/

Youtube: https://youtu.be/kmZGXdpsYmE

And on May 15th, our free story coincidentally is by Mme Mad.

Do enjoy that comic adventures of Dr. Benjamin Amdur, beleaguered civil servant, in “Amdur’s Cat”. It is part of our very first Mesdames anthology, Thirteen, (Carrick Publishing, 2013.)

Huge congratulations to Mme Melissa Yi for winning this year’s Derringer for Best Short Short Story! “My Two-Legs” was published in 2022 in the September/October issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

In her moving story, a loyal dog strives to rescue his wounded human, his “two-legs”, who has been the victim of a crime. Melissa based her animal hero on her family’s beloved late dog.

AND Melissa’s re-imagined fairy story, “White Story and Seven Dreams”, placed third for the Joy Kogawa Award for Fiction!

Our April story, “There Be Dragons”, is from our third anthology, 13 Claws, (Carrick Publishing, 2017.) All the tales in the collection involve animals…and crime. Many are our dear companions, cats and dogs; others are perhaps, as in Jane’s story, a little unusual.

Jane is a master short fiction author. Her work has won and been short-listed for many awards, including The Bony Pete and the CWC Award of Excellence.

“There Be Dragons” was a finalist for the 2017 CWC Award for Best Short Story. In this story, three children, grieving the loss of their mother, stumble on their strange and mystical heritage.

THERE BE DRAGONS

By Jane Petersen Burfield

For a murder, it was both necessary and satisfying. No one had deserved this fate more. No one could threaten her family and get away with it.

She swam in the darkening water as the sky glowed in the west. Soon the fireflies would dance, and she could forget, just for a while, what she had lost and what she had become.

“There be dragons,” Katie read aloud from the illustration. As she squinted at the map in the old book, the creatures that illustrated the manuscript swirled. A soft green glow lit the map from within. Startled, Katie let the book slip from her fingers onto the dusty desktop.

“We’re not supposed to touch that book,” Georgie mumbled. Ever since their mother had died, he’d spoken in soft whispers.

“I know, Georgie.” She sat in the chair behind the carved oak desk and turned over another page. “Where do you think the dragons lived? I’m not sure I believe in dragons. Maybe they lived a long time ago.”

“Of course, there are dragons,” Georgie murmured. “Mother told us about them. She showed me one once. I remember going out to the garden with her. We ran around the pond. There was a splashing sound, and a dark shadow came out of the water. A man came out of the trees. Mother pushed me behind her. There was a flash of light, like lightning. I think the man ran away.”

“Did you dream that?” Katie closed the book, sending a gentle swirl of dust from the neglected desk flying around the library.

“No,” Georgie said hesitantly. “No! I remember. I remember the eyes in the pond. Something chased the man, and then disappeared. I think it was a dragon.”

“Well, we could use a dragon now. Creepy Gerry is here bothering Emma. He keeps turning up wherever she is. He follows her. And Dad isn’t even aware of it.”

“Emma is old enough to look after herself.” Georgie peered into the forbidden cupboard in the desk where the book had been.

“No, she’s not,” Katie said. “She’s only 17. And he keeps going after her.”

“We’ll watch out for her, Katie, and Grandmother Lowe will be here soon. She’s scary enough to take care of anything. We’d better get downstairs before Dad finds us up here. He’ll be mad if he knows we opened the secret cupboard.”

“Okay, Georgie.” She put the forbidden book back and locked the cupboard door, closing the outer panel in the desk so it couldn’t be seen. “I’ll put the key back in Father’s drawer later when’s he’s having coffee in the garden.”

“I’ll go out with him, Katie. I can keep him away and I love the fireflies.”

“You love that garden. Lilacs, lilies, crickets and the fireflies in the trees. Mother loved it too, I remember.”

“I really like fireflies the most. They are magical.” Georgie headed for the door, listening carefully for anyone outside. In the darkened hall, they turned toward their bedrooms.

***

Peter Drake walked around the dining room to look out on the stone patio. Almost time to summon the kids for supper. Their large stone house sat well back from Barrie Road at the end of a wooded drive. It was very similar to the family home they had left in Wales, complete with dragon gargoyles under the eaves. Now, in the late afternoon, sunlight made the dining room and patio outside a drowsy haven.

He stared at the pond, sitting like a jewel amongst the trees. In certain lights, he swore he could see Maria, but dusk was the best time. The woods were silhouetted against the darkening sky, and the fairy lights danced. He had always loved the little glow bugs that drew him outside. Maria swore they were magical, but he had scoffed at her. Still, unexplained things went on in the garden. Mysteries.

Ginny, their housekeeper, banged the gong for dinner. She loved banging that gong. Ginny had driven Maria mad with the noise, but she had kept their house and lives tidy. How could he deny such a small source of joy to his inherited help?

At dinner, Emma was missing.

“Where’s Emma?” Peter asked. “I thought she was home from her weekend with her friends.”

“She’s tired, Peter. Asked to stay upstairs. I’ll take her a tray later,” Ginny said as she served plates of salad.

Katie stabbed at a crouton, and it skittered across the tablecloth. “She thinks Cousin Gerry is still here. He left this afternoon, thank heavens. I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Gerald asked to visit,” Peter said. “We don’t have many relatives. I want you to know both sides of your family.”

“We know enough about your family, Dad. We don’t need to see Gerry.” Georgie buttered one of Ginny’s soft dinner rolls, ignoring his salad.

“You don’t know everything about our family. But I’ll tell you more someday when I think you are ready. Now, what did you learn today?”

Living in the country meant that Katie and Georgie had to bus to school and could rarely invite friends over. They had to watch the news or look up a new subject on the computer every day to answer their father’s hated ritual question over dinner. He asked every night, trying to be a good parent.

“We learned about China, Dad.” Georgie passed the butter to Katie, who was pointing at it as inconspicuously as she could so her father wouldn’t get annoyed. “And we looked up some Chinese myths. On Friday, Miss Andrews showed us pictures of dragons in a really neat book. She said they represent power. They were amazing!”

“Dragons are common in many myths and fairy tales. Katie, don’t manhandle the rolls.” Peter turned back to Georgie. “There are beautiful illustrations in the Lang fairy-tale series. I particularly like the ones in The Green Fairy Book. I’ll have to find you my copy in the library.”

“Sometimes, Dad, I wish they still existed. I almost believe they do.”

“Georgie, we talked about that. Evening shadows can make us believe almost anything. But you know they are just shadows.”

“But, Dad, I saw one last year. I know I did!”

“Georgie, you have a vivid imagination, just like your mother.”

Katie and Georgie looked at their dad in surprise. Peter rarely talked about their mother, and it had been more than two years since her death.

After wiping his chin with his napkin, Peter turned to Katie. “Now what did you learn today?”

She winced and began to recite the trivia she had looked up.

***

After dinner, while Ginny cleaned up, Katie headed outside along the path off the patio. The water in the pond seemed flat black, reflecting the fairy dance of firefly light. She walked farther around the pond as sunset shone through the trees. She wasn’t worried about finding her way back to the house after dark. Unusually good night vision was a family trait, her mother had told her. And the house would glow with the lights from the family’s rooms.

She looked into the water, hoping to see the shape she had seen so many times before. Tonight, there was nothing there, or nothing she could see. Katie sat down on the bench installed in memory of her mother. She stroked the carved figures on the wooden side, and thought about her. A ripple on the surface of the darkening water drew her eyes away from the silhouette of the house. As the dark waters started to stir, her hopes grew.

“There you are Katie. I thought I’d join you on your walk.” The water’s surface grew flat again as her father appeared.

Katie took her father’s hand and asked, “What really happened that night? The night Mother died?”

Her dad’s hand clenched slightly. “Why do you want to know, sweetheart? I’ve told you what I can.”

“You never talk about her or about what happened. All I remember is hearing something across the water. And you ran out. Georgie ran behind you, and I tried to stop him. It was getting very dark. I saw you struggling with someone. He broke away. And then something reared up out of the water, hit the man and swept him in. Something very large. Where was Mother? What happened to her?”

Her dad squeezed her hand. “I know it’s confusing. Let’s go back to the house.” They turned away from the water, and started to walk up the patio to the house. “I think it’s time, Katie, for me to tell you what I know. I’m not sure Georgie is old enough yet. Emma knows some of it. We’ll find a time to talk tomorrow when we won’t be interrupted.”

As Katie glanced back at the water, a flicker of light beneath the surface lit a large body in its depths. More flickers of light matched the fireflies above.

***

School the next day seemed interminable. Katie longed to be home for the planned meeting. Emma was waiting for her in the kitchen with juice and Ginny’s ginger cookies when she arrived home. Being away at boarding school had changed Emma. She now wanted to spend time with her little sister.

“Do you think he’ll tell us about Mother, Em?” Katie asked.

“I hope so, Katie. Don’t bug him for details. This is hard for him. You don’t see him every night after you and Georgie go to bed. He sits looking out the window at the pond. He can sit there for hours.”

“Did he ever tell you what happened? I was young then, just 10, and Georgie was very little. He never said anything to us.”

Emma refilled Katie’s juice glass. “He rarely talks about Mother. Or the creature.”

“So you believe in the creature, too?”

“I do, Katie. I do. It protects us. But the creature knows people are scared of it, so it doesn’t often let itself be seen.”

“What happened that night? What did you see?”

“I’m not sure, Katie. I saw something, but I’m not sure what. A man grabbed Mother outside on the patio. He dragged her around the pond. Then something hit him as he held her. I swear it looked like an animal claw. Then it got really confusing.”

The girls heard the front door open and their father call for Ginny. They listened to him settle in the dining room, where they knew he would be looking out the window, even though dusk wouldn’t fall for another few hours. They looked at each other, and went quietly to join him.

“Hello, my little ones. How was your day?” He poured himself a whiskey.

“The usual, Dad,” said Emma.

“Same here” said Katie. “Are we going to talk about Mom before Georgie gets home from soccer?”

“Yes, I guess so. We should.” He walked over to close the dining room door, and sat at the table, his back to the windows. “I’m not sure where to start. There are things about your mother’s side of the family that few people know. But someone found out, and Maria had to be protected.”

“Who threatened her? You’ve never told us this,” Emma said.

“Your mother was…special. Her family goes back a long way in Wales. They were never rulers, but ruler makers. And they had some unusual abilities.”

“Like what, Dad?” Katie asked.

“They were—they are—deeply connected to the old world, to the magical side that most people have forgotten about or scoff at. They understand magic. And because of that, they are in danger.”

“So that’s why we left Wales.” Emma held Katie’s hand tightly in her own.

Peter got up from his chair and came around the shining wood table to stand near them. Taking both their hands, he said, “Yes. Your mother had to leave for her safety. We brought your grandmother and your great-grandmother with us. We thought we’d all be safer over here, but they found us. They sent a man to try to kidnap your mother.”

“Who are they?” Emma asked.

“I’m not sure. I believe they belong to another old family who knows the secrets of power. The man that night tried to capture your mother. She decided she needed to keep you safe.”

“How?” Katie turned to look at the pond.

“Your mother knew you would be in danger if they knew she was still alive.” Peter looked at the girls. “What I’m going to tell you now is a secret, a very important secret. Your mother vanished to protect you. The police believe that she fell or was pushed into the pond, but they never found her body. They only found blood on a rock nearby and ripped material from the dress she was wearing on the rocks and bushes where the water cascades down to the lake. They think her body was swept out of the pond into the lake. The water runs pretty fast over the cliff, especially when it rains.”

“What about the man? Did he drown in the pond, too?”

Peter shifted in his chair, to half face the water. “They never found him. The police thought he may have survived. That he climbed out of the pond at the far end.”

“But so could Mother!” Emma got up to stand by the fireplace where she could see his half-turned face.

“We thought it best for your sake to say she died. I don’t know if we were right.”

“Is Mother still alive?” Katie sat with her shoulders coat hanger-straight, clutching the arms of her chair, looking at her father with wide-open eyes.

“No one is to know what I’ve told you. Including Georgie. He’s too young. You all will be in great danger if this becomes known.”

They heard the front door open, and Ginny’s cheerful voice bounce down from the front hall. “Hello. Anyone here? Oh, there you are.” She peeked into the dining room. “I’ll put the kettle on and make a quick dinner.”

When she’d gone, Peter said: “We’ll talk more about this another time, girls. It’s important that you know. Remember, keep the information secret.”

***

Katie was glad to go upstairs with Emma. Their mother was, seemingly, alive. And if she hadn’t died, where was she? When could they see her?

“Katie, I want to show you something.” Emma pulled her sister into her bedroom. “After mother disappeared, I found her jewelry box hidden at the back of her closet. And in it, I found this.” She held up a very old necklace—a dark red stone shining from an intricately woven gold shield, hanging on a long rose-gold chain. “I think this is what the intruder wanted. I don’t know what to do with it now. I’m nervous to leave it in the house.”

“Wow, Em.” The necklace shone with more brilliance than the window light should have given it. Katie examined it, holding the chain so the pendant flashed. “But why did you take it?”

“I wanted something that was Mother’s. Sometimes I wear it under my top.”

“Be careful, Em. Put it back in the closet. Dad might look for it now that he’s told us about Mother.”

“No, he won’t. He doesn’t like to look at anything that reminds him of her. He doesn’t even go into the living room, because her picture above the fireplace makes him sad.”

Katie shook her head and walked over to Emma’s window. “I don’t know what to think about what Dad told us. If Mother is alive, where is she?”

She looked out at the pond, but nothing was stirring.

***

Peter, too, looked out toward the pond in late afternoon sun. Had he been wise to tell the girls? But if anything happened to him, they needed to know.

He knew she was in the water, benign and protective, but he had never seen her. The ability to see the magic was given only to Maria’s daughters. Neither he nor Georgie could see her. He could hear her, and occasionally he saw a shadow move. Nothing more.

***

Dinner was very silent, except for Georgie talking about the upcoming school play. Peter for once did not question them about what they’d learned that day.

After dinner, Katie waited in the dark hallway outside the dining room. When Peter stepped onto the patio, and walked toward the sunset-lit trees around the pond, she followed him.

Fireflies, lively tonight, hovered between tree branches and above the pond. And in the water, light seemed to shine upward.

“Ah, Katie. It’s a beautiful evening. I thought some fresh air might clear my head.”

“May I walk with you, Dad? I’ve finished my homework.”

“Of course. How are you feeling about what I told you today?”

“Why is all this happening to our family? Why are the people coming here, coming after us? And where is Mother now?”

“They think your mother—and now perhaps you and Emma—know about something they want. It’s hard to explain. The women in our family are special. They have special sight, and special abilities.” He took Katie’s hand. “Have you ever seen anything…peculiar…in the pond? A creature?”

Katie looked up at her dad. “I know there is something in the pond. I’ve never seen it clearly, but I know it’s there.”

“You do have the special sight, then, Katie.”

“Georgie says it saved us from the strange man before Mother disappeared.”

“I was surprised when Georgie said he saw something. Usually only the women have the sight. Maybe young children do, too.”

“Where did this creature come from, Dad? I’m not afraid of it.”

“The creature is a female, like you and Emma, and your mother. It’s part of your heritage, your Welsh family.”

“Can Emma see her?”

“Yes, she has the sight, too. You both see many things other people don’t. Have you ever tried to talk to the creature?”

“Sort of, Dad. Once I sang a lullaby Grandma Lowe used to sing to us. One that Mother knew. There was a ripple. It was too dark to see, but I wasn’t afraid.”

“You were singing to your great-grandmother. We brought her with us from Wales, but she got very sick on the journey, and so she left her human form. She’s the creature, the dragon in the pond. She is powerful and protects you, indeed all of us. There is still danger for her, though. Few people believe that dragons still exist, but…”

“Why do those other people want to hurt us?” Katie slipped her hand back into her father’s as they reached the far side of the pond. From there, the sun reflected on and through the water, and she saw the large, dark shape, followed by a smaller shape.

Peter stopped and looked intently at her. “There is a book, a valuable book that belongs to our family. We brought it with us from Wales, and I hid it in the house. It’s about dragons. In the historian world, it would cause a sensation.”

“I know about the book, Dad. It’s beautiful. The pages shine.”

Peter glanced quizzically at her, but continued. “There’s also a pendant made from a rough garnet set in Welsh gold. It goes with the book. Strange things happen when the two are close to each other, so I hid them in two different places. I think that’s what the men are after. I don’t know how they found out about them, because only our family knows.”

Katie and Peter sat down on the memorial bench, Peter’s fingers automatically searching to rub the inscription to Maria.

“Did you tell Cousin Gerry about it, Dad?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Yes, I did.”

“Dad, I don’t know how to say this. I’ve seen him in the upper hallway, several times, where he has no right to be. He spies on us. And he follows Emma. I don’t like him at all. Neither do Emma and Georgie.”

Peter sighed and looked into the water. “Gerry’s never been as reliable as he could be. But I thought, I hoped, he would protect our family if need be. It’s possible he’s behind it. I hope not. But I don’t know.”

“Is there anyone else who knows?”

“Just your Grandma Lowe. I’ve left a letter for our lawyer in case something happens to me. Other than that, we’ve told no one. I think Ginny suspects something, but I don’t want to put her in danger. She’s a good woman. I’ll be glad when Grandma Lowe returns from Wales.”

The water rippled, and a black tail tip emerged.

“It’s time.” Peter stood up and brought out a silver whistle. “Would you like to meet your great-grandmother, Katie? I mean, meet her again. You knew her in Wales when you were very little.”

“I remember her. Oh, yes, Dad. I would.”

Peter blew one long note on the whistle. Suddenly, a dark green head emerged from the water, followed by a scaled back, bright wings and a pointed tail.

“Margaret, here is your great-granddaughter, Katie.”

The creature pulled herself up onto a rock, and spoke in a gravelly voice. “Hello, little one. You have grown since I last talked with you.”

“Great-grandmother! I am so glad to see you. I wish Mother were here, too.”

The dragon moved closer to Katie and her father. An ethereal wing wrapped around the girl’s shoulders, nudging Peter aside. He looked startled, but then moved back.

“Well, little one, your mother is not too far away. I tell her how you are and what you are doing. She so much wants to come back to you. But your father and I decided that for everyone’s safety, she should stay hidden. Like the locket and the book. I know you have seen both. Keep them separate, and keep them safe.”

“Margaret, I wish I could see you.” Peter looked in the direction of the rock beside the bench. “I’m grateful for your protection of the children.”

“I will always protect my little ones, Peter. Don’t worry.”

Katie watched as she unwrapped her wing. She slid off the rock, and back into the water. Just before her head went under, she said, “Remember, keep the treasures safe. I’ll be here.”

***

The rest of the week slipped by quickly. Emma and Katie would quietly ask their dad questions, but he rarely answered them, pretending Ginny or Georgie were about to enter the room.

On Thursday night, Ginny called Peter to the phone.

“Hi, Peter. It’s Gerry. I’d like to come down.”

“Gerry. We’re busy this weekend. Perhaps another time?”

“I need to see you. Now.”

“Sorry. As I said, we are busy. The kids are in a play at school. Before their holidays begin.” Peter listened as the receiver slammed down. He hoped not to hear from Gerry again.

***

Katie was glad the school year was almost over. On Friday afternoon, she went upstairs to put on her costume and asked Emma for help with her makeup.

Emma applied mascara to Katie’s lashes, and stood back to study her handiwork. “Beautiful. You are growing up fast.”

“I wish Mother could see me.” Katie looked into the old dresser mirror, through silvered reflections, imagining what she would look like in a few years. Her mother’s dress, hemmed up with tape and held in by a belt, outlined her maturing shape. Her copper hair had darkened over the winter, but the summer sun would lighten it back to a blaze. Her green eyes were her mother’s color. She glowed, much like the afternoon sun outside the window.

Trailing skirts just a bit too long for her, Katie stepped down the stairs, surprised to see her father at the bottom. “You look so much like your mother, Katie. I’m not surprised you have her gift.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She paused on the stairs, aware of a new feeling. Power? Could it be power? “We should go. Is Ginny in the car?”

“Yes, ready to go.” Peter called up the stairs. “Georgie!”

“Coming, Dad.” The small boy tumbled past Katie on the stairs. His old-fashioned suit, expertly recut by Ginny from Peter’s old jacket, made him look like he had stepped out of a movie. “I’m excited.”

“I know, son.” Peter locked the front door, and they left for the school.

Nearby, watching them go, was a man dressed in black.

***

The play—a reenactment of village life 150 years ago during Canada’s Confederation—was a success. As the audience clapped for their own children, if not for other cast members, Katie fought an urge to get home. She didn’t want to stay for the reception and the congratulations, the groups of neighbors gossiping, the kids running to burn off energy after sitting still for an hour. She just wanted to go home.

After a few minutes of lemonade, cookies and chat, she whispered to Peter that something was wrong. He looked at her, this little die-cut version of Maria, and knew they must go. Ginny rounded up Georgie while Emma, Katie and Peter headed outside to their car.

The drive through the darkening woods was silent. Even Georgie seemed to feel anxious now. As they turned down their long driveway, a light shone from the far side of the house.

Peter told everyone to stay in the car. He got out and ran around to the back. When he didn’t return, Emma scrambled out the door, followed by Katie. Ginny kept Georgie with her inside the car.

The girls ran around the house to the patio. The dining room door stood open, the glass in shards on the ground. Inside, Peter was wrestling with a man.

Katie tried to run in to help. Emma held her back, but Katie broke free. She shot inside and leaped on the man’s back. He tried to shift her, but she hung on. Peter hit him hard. Katie and the man fell to the carpet.

Peter pulled Katie up and hugged her. She could feel him shaking. He collapsed in a chair, while Georgie and Ginny burst into the dining room. Emma dialed 911 for the police.

“What happened? Who is he?” Georgie pushed away from Ginny and tried to pull off the man’s mask off before Peter grabbed him.

On the floor, the intruder groaned, then stirred.

“Find some rope, or duct tape,” Peter ordered. “Emma, did you call the police? Katie, go to the front to wait for them. Georgie, stay back.”

Suddenly, the intruder scrambled up and dug into his pants pocket. A glittering knife appeared in his right hand. He lunged for Georgie and grabbed him. Keeping an eye on Peter, he dragged Georgie by the boy’s collar across the room to the outer door. “Don’t come any closer, Peter. Give me the book and the necklace and I’ll leave. I’ll keep Georgie with me. Give them to me or he’ll die.”

“Gerry!” Peter recognized the intruder’s voice. “Why are you doing this? These are my children!”

“Money, Peter. Just money.” He yanked Georgie to his feet with his left hand. “You have valuable things. With Maria dead, you don’t need them anymore. And I do.”

“I can’t believe you’d betray us like this, threaten my kids.”

“You heard me.” Gerry moved back, a firm hold on Georgie. “Give me the book and the necklace or Georgie will get hurt.” He brandished the knife. “I mean it.”

Suddenly, Georgie kicked backward hard, striking Gerry in the shin. Gerry yelled in pain and loosened his grip on the boy’s collar. Georgie broke free and rushed out the dining room door.

Katie watched Georgie run toward the bench on the far side of the pond with a cursing Gerry, knife still in hand, in close pursuit. She rushed after them. Georgie and Gerry were beside the water, with Gerry closing the gap between him and the boy. Then, to her amazement, she saw a large golden claw come out of the water. Gerry turned, his eyes widened, and he dropped the knife. The claw reached up, hooked Gerry and dragged him under.

Katie screamed. Light shot up into the sky like fireworks. The water surface quivered with the struggle beneath.

Peter and Emma came running up to her. Katie could only point. Georgie shouted about Gerry in the now-quiet pond.

“Georgie, listen to me,” Peter said, spotting the knife and pocketing it. “The police will be here soon. Tell them Gerry fell into the water.”

“Yes, sir,” said Georgie.

He turned to Katie. “You understand, don’t you, Katie? Do not tell them what you saw. Say the same thing.”

Katie nodded. Looking at the water surface, now lit by fireflies, she couldn’t believe anything had happened. The surface, as smooth and dark as oil, reflected the last of the sunlight. At the far end of the pond, she saw two dark shapes emerge from the water and, with a swirl of wings, lift into the sky.

She heard running footsteps, and knew the police were close. And as they arrived at the pond, she saw two magnificent dragons, one large, and one smaller, fly through the twilight, and out over the trees. She shivered as fireflies danced around her. She knew she had just seen her mother and knew she would see her again. Then she could see nothing but the last of the twilight, shining through the trees.

***

Later that night, after having Ginny’s restorative cups of cocoa, the girls relaxed in Emma’s bedroom. Emma hugged Katie and pulled the garnet pendant out from under her blouse. Soft light infused the space around them.

“That was quite a day, Katie.”

“I’m so glad it’s over. I’m glad Mother is alive. I’m glad there’s some magic in the world. Most of all, I’m glad we’re safe again.” Katie settled back down on the bed.

The sisters smiled as the pendant lit up, fire-like. They would keep it and the book safe. They would keep their family safe.

And soon, Katie knew, they would see what happened when they put the pendant and the dragon book together.

THE END